


Love Stories and Tournaments of Lies

by nocturnias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Bromance, Drama, F/M, Forced Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Mystery, Romance, SAMFA Winner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:19:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 95,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnias/pseuds/nocturnias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is drawn into a perverse game unlike anything he's ever played. As he tries to untangle the web, he makes a shocking discovery that will change two lives forever. Sherlock/Molly. </p><p>Winner of "Best Romance," "Best Mystery," and "Fan Favorite" in the Rated M category of the 2012 Sherlock and Molly Fanfiction Awards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> This is a novel-length story. I've had it up on FF but several people have requested I post it here, for those who don't go to FF or want to download the finished story. 
> 
> This is a work of fanfiction. I own nothing of Sherlock and make no profit from this.

 “Every person has their pressure point.  Someone that they want to protect from harm.”

Jim Moriarty, _Sherlock,_ “The Reichenbach Fall”

 

“Nothing!”

John sighed, wishing he was somewhere quieter and more peaceful.  Standing in the middle of a pride of lions, for example.  Instead he was on the sofa at 221 B Baker, listening to Sherlock rant and rave.

Sherlock was pacing around and striking things angrily with the end of the broom.  “No murders.  No heists.  No disappearances.  What is wrong with the people of England! Don’t they know I need something to do?”

“Yes,” John said flatly.  “How terribly rude of people not to get killed so that you can have a case.”

Sherlock stopped pacing and shot him a withering glance.  “It’s been a week, John.  A week!”

“Oh, my.  Should I fetch you a bottle and teddy bear now or do you want me to give you a few more minutes to act like a baby?”

Another withering glance.  Sherlock began hitting things again, punctuating his hits in time with his tirade.  “This…is…driving…me…mad!”

“Stop this!  Stop it now, Sherlock.  Or so help me I’ll get a nappy and wrap it around your mouth.”

Sherlock paused.  With a final heavy dramatic sigh he flung the broom onto the floor and launched himself into an armchair.

“It wouldn’t hold,” he muttered.

“Try me,” John said warningly.

Sherlock was about to risk it out of boredom when John’s phone rang.  “It’s Lestrade,” he said, frowning.  “Why’s he calling me and not you?”

Sherlock muttered something that sounded like “becauseIthrewmyphoneinthetoilet.”

John groaned.  “You’ve got to stop this childish behavior, Sherlock!”

“Answer the phone!” Sherlock snapped.

John blew out a frustrated breath and hit the button.  “Yes, Detective Inspector?”

As he listened, his face immediately darkened.  “What?”

Sherlock said nothing, but his entire body tensed.

“When?  Is she all right?  What happened?”

_She.  Implies a level of familiarity.  Not something ordinary or he’d not have asked what happened.  Mrs. Hudson is fine, so that means…_

“We’re on our way,” John said, ending the call and leaping up to grab his jacket.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, even though he’d already deduced most of it.

But knowing didn’t lessen the effect of John’s words.

“It’s Molly.  She’s been attacked.  She’s in St. Bart’s.”

Lestrade was waiting for them outside Molly’s room.

“They found her about a block from her flat.  She’s resting now.”

“They found her two hours ago and you’re only now calling us?”  Sherlock asked.  “They’ve removed most of the evidence by bringing her here; you should’ve phoned me at once!”

Lestrade looked like he was both impressed and ready to punch Sherlock.  It was a look John knew well.

“Why?  We happen to have people quite capable of gathering evidence, thank you!  And in case you forgot, she was attacked and rather in need of medical attention!”

“Yes, all right,” Sherlock muttered.  “May we see her?”

Lestrade clenched the doorknob.  “So help me, Sherlock, if she’s awake…”

“Yes, fine, I’ll treat her like a basket of kittens, happy now?”

Lestrade gave him a final glare and opened the door.

Molly was asleep, the pale light in the room eerily highlighting the bruises on her face.  Her lips were parted in sleep and her chest rose and fell steadily.  Sherlock moved for her chart but Lestrade’s arm shot out and grabbed his.  “NO, Sherlock.”

“Was she… sexually assaulted?” John asked, dreading the response.

“No,” Sherlock said absently.  He quietly walked around her sleeping form, studying her, her belongings nearby on the window ledge.  “But she was beaten.  Not enough to cause serious harm, but enough to make a point.”

“Anything stolen?”

“No,” Sherlock replied again.   He fixed his eyes on Lestrade.  “On the contrary.  Whoever did it left something with her.”

“What?” John asked.

“How the hell did you know that?” Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Because something was removed from her right hand coat pocket.  Something out of the ordinary.  Something that can’t be anything other than evidence.”

John looked at Lestrade.   Lestrade nodded. “Yes.  But how could you tell?”

“Because the right hand coat pocket is cleaner than the left.  You did a more thorough examination once you made your discovery.”

John shook his head.  He shouldn’t still be amazed by Sherlock, and yet he was.

“Well you’re right,” Lestrade said.

“I believe you already made that known,” Sherlock said mildly.

“You’ll have to come to the station with me if you want the full story,” Lestrade continued.

“Very well.”  Sherlock cast one final fleeting glance at Molly before they left.  There was something odd in his eyes, but for the life of him John wasn’t sure what it was.

At the station, they went into a meeting room.  Lestrade brought in two envelopes.  “This is what we got from her.”

“Do you know who did it?” John asked.

Sherlock was about to say no, but Lestrade beat him to it.  “No.  No witnesses, no prints.  Nothing yet.”

“And the contents of the envelopes?”

Lestrade opened the first one and pulled out a DVD in a red paper sleeve.  Sherlock picked it up and read the title.  He passed it to John.  John looked.  It was the movie _Love Story_.

“I’m sorry, but are you two sure this is evidence?  She could’ve borrowed this from a friend.”

“Yes.  For two reasons.  One: there is no trace of anything physical to suggest Molly ever held this disc.  No skin, no prints, no smudges of food or traces of scent. Further, the paper is slightly creased as though it was hurriedly stuffed into the pocket.  Molly Hooper doesn’t treat anything she owns carelessly, and she certainly wouldn’t be careless with someone else’s property.”

Lestrade glared at Sherlock when he finished.  “And the second reason?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “You’re holding another envelope.”

Lestrade nodded, opening it.  “We think it was a grudge attack by an ex-boyfriend.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised.  “Why would you ever think that?  Molly’s as harmless as a fly.  She’s hardly the type to incite violence.”

“Well she incited it in someone,” Lestrade said, tight-lipped.  He handed Sherlock an 8x10 photo. 

Sherlock lifted it up and almost immediately dropped it to the floor as though it had burned him.  His already pale skin turned a shade closer to death.

“Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock said, a tremor in his voice.  “Not an ex-boyfriend.  An ex-lunatic.  Who apparently is not so ex after all.”

“What?” John snapped.

Sherlock looked at them with blazing eyes.  “He’s back, John.”

John paled.  “Sherlock, no, that’s not possible, he’s gone, dead…”

“Who are you talking about?” Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock jumped up.  “I’ve got to get back to the hospital.  Fill him in, John, then meet me there.”

“Sherlock what the hell are you talking about!” Lestrade shouted as Sherlock left the room.  He turned back to John, who was studying the photograph, his face frightened.

The photo was a picture of Molly’s bare back. Cut into her skin were the letters: “IOU.”


	2. Wicked Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty makes himself known and tells Sherlock there is a new game. One that involves Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will publish this probably 2-6 chapters a week until it's finished.

Sherlock detested the police station.  It was always filled with strange smells, strange people (like the woman who’d all but run him down in the hall without any semblance of an apology) and general busy nuisances.  It served a useful purpose, but he always sighed with relief when he left.

He hailed a cab and leaned back in the seat, gazing sharply out the window.  Moriarty.  How?  And more importantly, what was he planning?  The message on Molly’s back was obviously a warning meant for him.  The world at large still didn’t know everything that had happened.  They didn’t know the truth.  He’d had no way to prove it.  Was he still Richard Brook?  Or would he have a new alias for whatever this new game was?

He started to phone John, remembered he’d ruined his phone in a fit of pique and sighed.  He’d  cleaned it off and brought it with him:  he’d have to go get another one later.  First he needed to get to the hospital, make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

A mobile rang.                                  

In his right coat pocket.

Sherlock went very still.

He composed himself and thrust a hand in his jacket pocket.  His dead mobile had been removed and replaced with a black flip model phone.  How had he not noticed that? 

 Number blocked.  _Not this again,_ he thought. 

There was nothing for it.  He opened it.

“Hello?”

A pause.  Then the voice.  **His** voice.  “You really ought to be more careful with your toys, Sherlock.”

“How did you know I’d wrecked my phone?”

There was a rich chuckle on the other end.  “Oh, honey.  Why are you asking a question you already know the answer to?  You must be slipping.”

_Of course._

 “Nice touch that, the woman in the hall.”

“So careless… are you not sleeping well lately?  Are you tired?”

“I’m not tired,” Sherlock snapped.  “Except of your games.”

“Aww.  Too bad, Sherlock.  Because you know quitting isn’t an option for either one of us.”

 “How did you do it?” Sherlock asked after a pause.

“Long story.  I won’t bore you with it, shall I?”

“Oh, I wish you did bore me,” Sherlock said, and Moriarty laughed.  “No, you don’t,” he said gently, almost affectionately.

“Why did you have someone attack Molly?” Sherlock asked.  “What did she ever do to you except have the remarkable sense to dump you after three dates?”

“Ouch.  You’ve wounded me to the quick, Sherlock.  No.  Not really.  And don’t play stupid.  It’s dull and it doesn’t suit you.”

Moriarty’s voice took a harder edge.  “You know why.”

Sherlock took a deep breath.  “What do you want?”

“You know that, too.  A game, Sherlock.  It’s what we do best, isn’t it?  Only this time you’ve got no chance of winning.  Because this is going to be a new game.  A game like nothing you’ve ever played before.  You don’t have a chance.  In fact, if you want to give up now, we can work something out-”

“You repeated yourself.  You must be quite pleased with your plan.”

“Oh, I am.  I am.  By the way, have you had a chance yet to watch the movie? No, you haven’t.  You’ve been too busy showing off at the station.  Oh, well.  Maybe later.  Well.  Let’s get down to the details, shall we?   It’s where the devil is, you know.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock repeated.

Moriarty’s voice turned into smooth steel.  “I’ve planted bombs.  Not like last time, though.  Big bombs, Sherlock.  Scary ones.  Really, you’d be impressed.  But you’re not going to look for them or tell anyone about them.”

“Because if I do you’ll call the game off and detonate them,” Sherlock said coolly.

“Yep.  Now pay attention, Sherlock.  This is stuff you don’t want to miss.”

“You’ll keep this phone on you or no more than ten feet away from you at all times.  You won’t tell anyone the details about our game.  So start making up some good stuff to fool everyone.  That should be easy for you.  I know what a good liar you are.  Of course, you do need to try and solve the case, so you have to do that, too.  Nice twist, isn’t it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Poor Molly.  You’re on your way to the hospital right now to see her, aren’t you.  Well, that’s good.  But there’s a little change in the program, Sherlock.  A different song to play.”

“You’ll go see Molly, and you’ll ask her questions and do all the little things you usually do.  But after that, I want you to sit on her bed with her and thank her.  With a troubled look on your face.  When she asks you what’s wrong, and she will because she’s stupid enough to care, tell her this is your fault.  Take her hand in yours and tell her you’re sorry.  Say it twice.  Put a little feeling into it, make sure you sound like you mean it. Vow to her that you’ll stop this.  Promise her. Kiss her on the cheek.  Give her one last look before you go.  Make it mysterious but… I dunno, haunted or something.”

Sherlock gripped the phone tightly.  “Did pretending to blow your brains out affect your intelligence?  Why in the world would you want me to do these things?”

“Now, now, that would be telling,” Moriarty said.  He laughed.  Then his voice turned nasty.  “I told you this was a whole new game, Sherlock.  And by the way, one of those bombs you’re not going to look for?”

“Is close enough to my building that everyone in it would die, yes, I gathered that,” Sherlock said coldly.

“Remember to keep your phone with you.  And don’t try anything stupid like opening it up and tampering with it.  You play this game my way, or it won’t just be John who gets burned.  It’ll be thousands of people.  That’s a lot of blood to try and wash off those pretty white hands.”

Sherlock waited a few seconds before replying.  “You’re going to listen to everything I do, I take it?”

“Got it in one that time.  Now go brighten Molly’s day.  She’s been through a rough time.  Oh, how I wish I could watch. This stuff makes for a great movie!”

He was gone.

Sherlock looked up.  They were almost at the hospital. 

A great movie.

So Moriarty had switched from fairy tales to movies.  But why?  What was this new game?

He’d have to find a copy of that damned movie when he left the hospital.  For now, he had a scene to play.  Sherlock Holmes was the star of an untitled film.  And he had no idea of the plot.

He went to Molly’s room.  She was awake and watching the television.  Her face looked pale and drawn but she seemed not to be in bad pain.  She hadn’t slept much, she liked milk in her tea, didn’t care for peach yogurt but liked cherry and hated her hospital gown.  He couldn’t blame her there.  The bruises on her face were already changing color.  Four more days and they should be gone.

He absorbed all this before even entering the room.  Devil in the details, indeed.  If Molly Hooper was involved this much in Moriarty’s plan, she was the new lucky recipient of all of Sherlock’s deductive powers.  He’d noticed things about her before, the same way he did with other people: largely indifferently and usually categorically.  But he was about to step that up a notch.

He cleared his throat, and she turned her head as he walked in.  “Oh!  Sherlock.  I was wondering when you’d get here,” she said, managing a small smile of faked cheerfulness.

“Actually, I was here earlier but you were asleep,” he said, closing the door.  He replayed what she’d said in his head.  “You’ve been expecting me?”

The smile faded.  “Of course.  You’ve got a new case.”  She looked down.  “Me.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer earlier,” he told her, and was rewarded by a surprised stare.  “I needed to go to the station.”

She nodded.  The apology was unexpected, but she had just been traumatized and maybe even he was capable of being nice in a case like this.  “I told Detective Inspector Lestrade it was all right to… consult with you.”

He knew exactly what she meant by that.  He weighed his next words carefully before he spoke.

“Molly… despite my frequently boorish behavior I really don’t want to embarrass or upset you.  But it would help me a great deal if I could actually see your back.”  His eyes met hers and the look in them caught her breath.  “May I?”

She hesitated, not sure if she could bear being that exposed to him.  Oh, she was always exposed to him to a degree: everyone was.  But this would be different.

He stepped closer.  “Please, Molly?  I promise to be gentle.”

She blinked.  He was being nicer than she’d have thought him capable.  But then, he was capable of all sorts of things.  Being nice to her just wasn’t usually one of them.

Against her inner voice screaming otherwise, she nodded.  “OK, then.”

“Thank you.”  He moved to stand behind her on the bed, waiting while she leaned forward and covered her front half tightly with her bedclothes before he acted.

He carefully untied the string of her gown, then peeled it to the sides. He carefully removed the bandages covering the wounds.  Her backside was exposed to him and he saw the top of her lavender knickers and the smooth curves of her hips.

 _Not the knickers she wore during the attack.  Someone went and fetched clothes for her at her flat_.   

Then his breath nearly caught in his throat.

_Not deep cuts.  Wouldn’t scar or they’d be very faint, treatable with laser surgery if she wanted.  Shallow cuts.  The kind that bleed and look worse than they really are.  He wasn’t trying to hurt her with it, exactly.  Just get his point across._

That wasn’t what interested him, though.

What made him almost gasp was something else, something on the left side of the small of her back.  Something he hadn’t been able to see in the photograph: something he wasn’t even sure if anyone else noticed.  It was faint, it was small, but it was unmistakable. Brown dots that looked like moles but were not.  Other people probably wouldn’t even see the pattern of them.  But he did.

An S and an M.

He hesitated, then pressed his fingertips firmly again them.  He heard Molly’s sharp gasp, but his focus was on the dots.  When he removed his hand a few seconds later, they were gone.

“Sherlock?”

_Oh, you are good, Moriarty._

“Sherlock what are you doing?” Molly squeaked.

He withdrew his hand and smiled at her nervous expression.  “Sorry.  Needed to make sure nothing had been missed.”

“By touching my back, near my bottom?” Molly asked, completely confused.

“You know my methods aren’t always orthodox, Molly,” he said as he deftly put the bandages back on and re-tied her gown.

“That’s one bloody way to put it,” she muttered.

He raised his eyebrows, amused and yes, a bit impressed by how well she was comporting herself.  He moved to the chair on the other side of her bed and sat down, looking at her intently.

“Now.  Tell me exactly what happened.”


	3. What's the Frequency, Kenneth?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock talk to Molly and learns something about his new phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains songs that are plot-relevant.

Molly swallowed hard.  Here was her chance to show Sherlock she wasn’t a complete idiot.

 _You’ve been attacked, beaten, had letters carved into your skin by a dead man, OK, not-so-dead man, and all you can think of is proving yourself to him?_ her brain shrieked.

She really needed to be slapped.

She nodded, composing her thoughts for a few seconds.  He waited, looking bored but patient.

“I was on my way to work.  Usual time, leaving from my flat.  I was alone. I didn’t notice anything odd.  I didn’t see anyone until I got in the street, which is normal as well,” she began, not quite looking into his eyes.

He nodded approvingly.  “Good, good.  Go on.”

Encouraged by his praise (well, praise coming from him) she continued.  “I had just rounded the corner at Sutton when a man grabbed me from the alley and pulled me in.  Taller than me, probably by half a foot.  Broad, muscular, wearing a long black trench coat.  I caught a glimpse of it at the bottom as he dragged me. I couldn’t scream, he’d covered my mouth with a white handkerchief.  It was… his left hand. He wore black leather gloves. He chloroformed me.  And…”

Her breathing came faster and harder.  She fell silent.

“Molly?”

She drew a deep breath and met his eyes.  “And I woke up there, about an hour later.  My… back and face hurt. My back more so.  He’d… he’d put my clothes back on me.  Even buttoned the shirt.”

“I started screaming, and someone came running into the alley.  You can probably figure out the rest.”

He nodded.

“It’s him, isn’t it,” she said.  “Moriarty.  He’s not dead.”

“Yes and no, in that order.”

“And… he’s figured out that I helped you.  And he’s used me to leave you a message.”

Sherlock was about to ask how she knew, then he remembered.  Molly had heard him muttering “IOU” that day in the lab.  Whatever or whomever else she did or did not pay attention to, he knew he was definitely one of the people that she did.

“So what’s his game this time?”

“I have no clue,” Sherlock said, and in most ways that was the truth. 

He startled her by moving from the chair to sit beside her on her bed.  Sherlock, sitting next to her?  What was going on?”

“Ok, what’s going on?” she blurted before she could stop herself.

He shook his head.  “Thank you, Molly,” he said, looking at her.

Oh.  More being nice.  Well, she had done a lot for him with, and since, Reichenbach.  She certainly deserved him being nice to her.  And it wasn’t that he’d been mean since then.  Well, not as much.  He just hadn’t been quite this… human.

He looked… troubled.  “Tell me what’s wrong.  Other than the obvious, I mean,” she said.

He drew a deep breath.  “This is all my fault.”

She stared at him, shocked.  “What?  No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.  You helped me and he used you to send me a message.  You were attacked, Molly.  He had someone cut letters into your back.  Because of me.”

He reached down and took one of her hands in his.

At that moment the door opened and a nurse came in.  “All right, sweetie, time for…”  her voice trailed off when she saw Sherlock and Molly holding hands,  staring at her as though she was a stick insect.

“Would you give us a minute, please?” Molly and Sherlock asked in unison.

The nurse gulped.  “Of course.  I’ll just, ah, I’ll just be right outside, then.”

She backed out, closing the door behind her, and Molly almost giggled.  Then she remembered that Sherlock was holding her hand, and for a second she didn’t think she could breathe.

Sherlock.  Holding her hand.  Sherlock.

She spun around to face him again.  “Sherlock?”

He gazed into her eyes.  “I’m sorry, Molly.  I am so, so sorry.”  His voice broke a bit.

“It’s,” she began, but he cut her off.

“No.  It’s not okay.  But I will stop this, Molly.   I’ll stop it. I promise.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.  Molly thought she might never breathe again.

“Um… good.  That’s… really good, Sherlock.”

He nodded, slowly standing up.  “I have some things  I need to do.  But I’d like to come back and see you soon, if that’s all right.”

“What?  Yes.  Yes, of course,” Molly said, feeling more con fused by the minute.  He was sorry?  He kissed her cheek?  He wanted to come back and see her?  Was the world about to end and everyone knew it but her?

“Good.”  He smiled briefly and crossed the room to the door.  He looked at her one last time.  He looked… she wasn’t sure.  Something she couldn’t figure out.  Haunted, almost.  As though this was really upsetting him.  “Goodbye, Molly.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” she said faintly, watching him go, trying to analyze what had just happened over the deafening beating of her heart.

Sherlock stepped into the hall, almost knocking over the nurse, who was standing near the door.  “May I go on in? Are you finished now, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

He fixed her with a fiery gaze.  “Madam, you certainly may.”  He turned away and started down the hall.  She could’ve sworn she heard him say: “but I am far from finished.”

He left St. Bart’s, hailed a taxi, and went to a video store.  The clerk raised his eyebrows when Sherlock asked him if he had the movie _Love Story_ , but didn’t comment. He tapped his fingers at a terminal for a few seconds and nodded.  “Yes, sir, we actually do.  If you don’t mind it used.  Someone brought in a used copy just this morning, it seems.  Lucky break for you, eh?”

 _Lucky indeed,_ Sherlock thought grimly.  “Yes.  I’ll take it.”

Once he had the film, he called John on his new phone and told him he’d just left Molly.  “I’m on my way to St. Bart’s,” John said.  “I had an emergency medical matter to attend to first.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “Oh?”

“Er… stomach bug,” John said.

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured.

“How’s Molly doing?”

“As well as can be expected considering she was attacked by a sadistic lunatic,” Sherlock answered, hoping Moriarty liked the jab.

“God, the poor girl.  That bastard.  Do you think he’s finished with her?”

“Probably not,” Sherlock said softly.

John sighed.  “Well, hopefully he’s not planning on killing her or something…”

“Killing, I highly doubt.  At this stage, anyway.  As for ‘something’… highly likely.”

John sighed again.  “Well, it’s good that people are keeping an eye on her.”

“Yes.”

“Anyways, where are you?  And whose phone is this?” John asked.

“Mine.  It’s my new phone.”

“They couldn’t let you keep the same number?”

Sherlock shot up in the seat.  “No.  What is my new number, by the way?”

John laughed.  “If it was anyone but you, I’d ask you how you did it.  But you won’t even realize why it’s funny.”

“John, what is the number?” Sherlock asked through clenched teeth.

“It’s 867-5309.”

Sherlock blinked.  “And why is that funny?”

“Well, it’s from a pop song.  From the 80’s.  American tune, very popular here as well.  It was called 867-5309.”

“What was the song about?”

“I don’t remember much, Sherlock.  Haven’t heard it in years.  So where are you off to now?”

“Back home.  I have a few things to take care of.”

“What, you’re not going to investigate the scene and such?”

“I need to think.  Besides, the scene won’t tell me anything now that I don’t already know.”

“All right, then.  I’ll see you later on.”

Sherlock hung up and leaned forward towards the taxi driver.  “Could you turn the radio on to the most popular music station, please? One that plays songs from the 80’s, if that’s possible.”

“No problem, sir,” the woman said.  There was a slight hiss and crackle, and suddenly the radio came to life.

“And welcome back to the all request and dedication hour.  This next song is for Sherlock from someone special.  It’s a new spin on a classic 80’s pop tune: “867-5309.”

Sherlock’s stomach did a sickening flip.  “Turn it up!”

The music started: some simple guitar with a simple catchy beat.  But Sherlock wasn’t playing much attention to that.  He was waiting for the lyrics.

_Molly, you've got my number,_ _I mean to make you mine_

_Molly, you’ve got my number,_ _867-5309_

Sherlock realized his hand was shaking and clenched his fist to stop it.  As soon as the song finished he called out: “stop!  Stop here!  Now!”

He jumped out of the taxi, crossed sides to pay, and stared at the driver.  It was only then that he realized it wasn’t really a woman.

It was him.

Moriarty, wearing a long blonde wig and sunglasses, grinned at him.  “No charge!  Enjoy the movie!” 

He slammed on the gas before Sherlock had a chance to do anything.  Again.  The license plate on the back of the taxi said _867-5309_.

“Really? Eighties pop?”  Sherlock shouted after him as loud as he could.

Sherlock hit his fist against his leg. “Damn!” he said angrily, startling a woman pushing a pram along the sidewalk.  He gritted his teeth and started the short walk back to Baker Street.

The song “867-5309” is by Tommy Tutone, copyright 1982, Columbia records.


	4. Selling the Drama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty gives Sherlock some "assignments" and Molly is confused about the change in his behavior.

As soon as he got home, he shoved the DVD into John’s laptop.

He forced his brain to shut out external stimulus so he could focus on the movie.

It was a romantic tragedy filled with clichés and multiple moments that were guaranteed to make most women sob into a tissue.  But the message was clear, or so he thought.  Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, girl dies from a horrible illness.  The End.

What was Moriarty telling him?

Was Molly going to die from a disease?  Had she been injected with some untraceable toxin?  But why the love angle?  He didn’t love Molly.  He wasn’t going to fall in love with her.  No offense to her.  She was sharper and cleverer than he once had thought.  She had a lot of good qualities.  But he didn’t do love.

So why the movie?  Why the song?  And why the attention to Molly?

When the phone rang he was ready.  “Are you getting sentimental in your old age?  Soppy films, 80’s pop?  Next thing I know you’ll be crying during commercials.”

“Lovely, wasn’t it?”  Moriarty asked cheerfully, as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken.  “nothing beats a good old-fashioned love story, that’s what I always say.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Ok, so I don’t.  But I’ll make an exception in this particular case.”

“What are you playing at?” Sherlock whispered.  “You know I don’t do love.  And killing Molly with some disease?  If you want rid of me so much, why don’t you just come and get me and kill me?”

There was a pause.  “Would you do that?  Would you give your life for Molly’s?”

Sherlock swallowed hard but didn’t hesitate.  “Yes.”

“How sweet.  But no, you’ve got it all wrong, darling. I’m doing you a favor.”

“A favor? How is that, exactly?”  Sherlock asked incredulously.

“I’ve giving you the opportunity to experience love.  You never have, have you.  But now you can.   You can open yourself up to it, Sherlock.  Embrace it.”

“Except that you’re forcing me to act out some sadistic charade and you’re going to kill Molly with some insane bioweapon.”

Moriarty sighed.  “Still don’t get it.  Oh, well.  Let’s move on to your next two assignments.”

“Go on.”

“One: you’ll go back to the hospital to see Molly tonight.  Take her some flowers this time.  Act casual as to why you did it.  When she presses, be all evasive and charming.  You want to confuse her, get her wondering, all that sweet rubbish.”

“Any particular flowers?” Sherlock asked.

“You pick.  Leave some mystery to the visit.  But end it like the last one: sit on the bed, hold her hand, kiss her cheek.  Look upset: well, as much as you can manage.  One more day and she’ll be discharged, and that will be great fun.  But for now, keep running a bit hot and cold.”

“And the other assignment?”

“Two movies _.  Romeo & Juliet_, whichever version you want to watch, and _Dangerous Liaisons_.   Watch them both tonight.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together.  “What you’ve having me do is going to cause a great deal of suspicion.  Not just with Molly, but with John.”

“Yeah.  Fun, isn’t it?  I told you.  Make things up.  Don’t give straight answers.  Claim you’re doing research… God, do I need to hold your hand with everything?  I thought you were cleverer than that.”

“I just don’t want to inadvertently set off any explosions,” Sherlock said defensively.

“Don’t worry.  If you’re about to accidentally step over a line, I’ll give you one warning.  One.  And you already know what will happen if you do it deliberately, so no need to stir that up.”

“No.  No need.”

“Good.  You should get some candy to snack on while you watch the movies.  Some Sno-Caps or a chocolate bar… chocolate’s great, you know.  Dark chocolate at least.  All those mood-elevating and pleasure-inducing chemicals… it might help you...”  Moriarty’s voice trailed off into a whisper.

“Help me with what?” Sherlock asked apprehensively.

“Whoops!  I almost said too much,” Moriarty laughed.  But Sherlock knew the entire speech had been deliberate.  “Anyway, it’s not an order, just a suggestion.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Do that.  Have fun tonight.  Give Molly a big kiss for me.  Oh, better not.  You might get jealous.  Bye!”

Sherlock snapped the phone shut and sighed.

 

Molly lay in her hospital bed, watching the telly.  Well, it looked like she was.  In reality she was driving herself mad trying to figure out Sherlock’s behavior.

OK, well, in some ways he’d been completely normal.  Asking for details, looking at her back, touching her bare skin without asking…

God that had felt good.

But sitting with her, taking her hand… not Sherlock.  Unless…

The events from the whole Moriarty mess before still hadn’t all been smoothed out.  And Molly didn’t care who you were, having to lie to your best friend and fake your death would weigh heavily on anyone.  Even Sherlock Holmes.  Since then he’d been nicer to her.  He wasn’t insulting her at every turn.  Maybe just every third one or so.

Had the impossible happened?  Had Sherlock become more of a, well, normal person?  Was he doing a test run on her or something?  After all, it would be easier—and more logical—for him to start with people he cared about.  And she did feel like he cared about her.  Somehow.  A bit.   

It made sense… in a very bizarre way.  The same way watching a car race so you could see a crash made sense.  Oh, wait, that wasn’t a very nice comparison…

She was interrupted from her mental chagrin by Sherlock opening her door and sweeping into her room.

“Molly,” he greeted her.  “You’re looking much better.”

“Oh, yes, I’m starting to feel a bit better, thanks,” she began, and stopped cold when she realized what Sherlock was holding in his hand.

Flowers.

A vase of pink and peach roses, to be exact.

His sharp eyes followed her gaze.  “Your room could stand some color to it,” he said, placing the vase on a nearby tray.  “All this white, the glare: can’t be good for the eyes.”

“Er, no, probably not,” she said, suddenly feeling a bit light-headed.  “They’re… lovely, thank you.”

He smiled briefly and swung into the chair near her bed.

“Have you made any progress yet?  With finding Moriarty?”

“No.  So far I haven’t seen a hair on his head.”

“Well, it’s sure to not be long before he makes another move,” Molly said.  “I do hope you can figure out what’s he’s plotting soon.”

“So do I,” Sherlock replied.

A moment of comfortable silence passed between them .  So naturally, Molly spoiled it.

“Why did you bring me flowers, Sherlock?”

He blinked.  “I told you.  To brighten up your room.  Besides, it’s what people do, don’t they?  Someone’s in hospital and you bring them flowers?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

“You’re not ‘people.’  You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“So I can’t do something nice to cheer up someone who’s my friend?”

“It’s just not like—hang on, did you just call me your friend?”

“Well aren’t you my friend?” 

“I dunno,” she said faintly.  “You tell me.”

“I just did,” he said, looking perplexed.

“Right.  Yeah.  You did.  OK.  Thanks.”

It used to be when Molly got tongue-tied around him, he looked at her with irritation, or worse, a blank stare.  But now he looked… uneasy.  Oh, God, did he already regret it?  Was he thinking of how to retract his statement?  What if any second now he…

“What are you watching?” he asked.

Molly blinked.  His question had broken the spell of panic she’d cast on herself.   She glanced up at the telly. “Oh, erm, it’s something different now.  It’s an updated version of _Romeo and Juliet._ I know most people like the Zeffirelli version, and I do too, but I prefer this one, to be honest,” she said, somehow feeling as though she’d admitted to having mono after she said it.  Then she groaned inside.  What did it matter to him what she preferred or if he thought it was stupid?  He’d no more care about her opinion on a romance movie than he’d care what she thought about-

“Do you mind if I watch it with you?”

Molly was reasonably certain her heart had just fallen out of her chest onto the floor.

“Watch… it with me?”

“Yes.”

“Um… don’t you have to be going off?”  She asked faintly.  “Finding clues, sorting evidence, that sort of thing?”

His gaze was unreadable.  “I’m doing exactly what I should be right now.”

“Oh.  Well, sure, if… if you like,” she told him, her mental capacity rendering her completely unable to say anything else.

He nodded.  “Thank you.”  He moved his chair to see the screen better, then reached inside his coat pocket.  “Would you care for a dark chocolate Galaxy bar?” he asked.


	5. Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Lestrade confront Sherlock.

Sherlock left the hospital and hailed a taxi, checking the driver carefully before he stepped in.

He sighed.  It had gone without a hitch for the most part.  He still wasn’t certain exactly what was going on in Molly’s head.  Hell, he wasn’t certain exactly what was going on in **his**.  But he’d given another stellar performance.  Now he had to find the second movie and watch it.

A text beeped on his phone.  He opened it.   _I didn’t care, really.  But Molly did.  And she’s what counts in this relationship._

More hints, more riddles.  All right.  Molly was the one who counted.  So this was about making her happy?  Just to kill her?  Or kill them both?  Because after watching that DiCaprio man and that Danes woman end up dead together he wasn’t certain now.  So far love and death were the only concrete ties.  And he did not care for either one.

A stop at the same video store yielded _Dangerous Liaisons_ and more chocolate.  Sherlock had been tempted not to get any candy, or maybe to get some Red Hots to spite Moriarty, but decided against it.  There was a clue in the remark he’d made, and if Sherlock was going to win this game he was going to have to step out of his box—and comfort zone—fast.

Was that why Moriarty had taunted him?  Told him he had no chance of winning?  Did he think Sherlock wouldn’t be able to pull it off?  Well, woe to him if that was it.  This was a case.  A deranged perverse case, but still a case.  With a lot of lives at stake.  He wasn’t going to give up and concede a loss even if he had to kiss a llama on the mouth.

People at St. Bart’s were already gossiping.  He’d bought the flowers right in their gift shop, his glare daring the woman behind the counter to say anything.  The straining necks, the shifting eyes, the “accidental” barging in to take Molly’s vitals or give her trauma therapy or some such nonsense.  Sherlock Holmes was buying flowers, and apparently that was more important  than anything going on in their own dull lives.  So be it, he shrugged.  He had important things to do.  Like watch a movie and eat chocolate.

John was waiting in the flat for him, his eyes darting up and meeting Sherlock’s.  “Sherlock,” he said, his voice calm and neutral.  **Too** calm and neutral.

“John,” he returned the greeting, walking over to the desk.  “I need your laptop if you don’t mind?”

 “Of course you may use it.”

Oh, this was worse than he’d thought.

He busied himself washing his hands and getting the movie ready, John watching him like a hawk the entire time.  He sat down with a sigh and turned to look at his friend.  “Yes, John?”

“You bought Molly flowers,” John said accusingly, as if daring Sherlock to deny it.

“Yes.”  He turned his attention back to the laptop.

“You bought **flowers** ,” John persisted.  “For Molly.  You.Bought.Flowers.”

Sherlock sighed.  “Yes.I.Did.  Now that we’ve established that for the second time, do you mind if I watch this movie in relative peace?”

“Movie?  I’m sorry, did you just say watch a MOVIE?”

Sherlock sighed again.  “I really should’ve bought you a hearing aid for Christmas.  YES I SAID A MOVIE!”

“Sherlock, you don’t watch movies.  And even if you did, Moriarty is out there somewhere, maybe after Molly, definitely after you, and you’re going to WATCH A BLOODY MOVIE?”

Sherlock blinked.  “There’s nothing I can do about that right now.”

John goggled at him.  “What?  Nothing you can… what?  Sherlock what the hell is wrong with you!”

“Apart from your yelling?”

“Sherlock, this is Moriarty we’re talking about here!  You’ve solved a case with nothing more than a food wrapper and a cricket ball before.  And you’re telling me there’s nothing that you can do right now?  Are you insane?”

“Yes, and probably, and in that order!”  Sherlock snapped.  “PLEASE leave me be, John.  It’s important that I watch this movie.”

“Why?  For God’s sake, what movie could you possibly be watching that would be so important right now?”

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “ _Dangerous Liaisons_.”

John blinked.  “Why are you watching that?”

“For clues, if you must know.  Now, may I please have some peace?”

“Clues?  What makes you think there will be clues in a movie?”

“I have my reasons.  Please, John.  Just trust me.”

John threw up his hands.   “I give up.  This seems mad, but you always know what you’re doing.  So, yeah.  Have at it.”

“Thank you.”  Sherlock hit PLAY and reached into his coat pocket.   “Would you like some chocolate?”

Whatever else he knew, John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes.

Understanding him was often another matter entirely.

So when Sherlock arrived home, confirmed he’d bought Molly flowers and then insisted he needed to watch a movie, John knew exactly what it meant.

It meant he had no earthly idea what Sherlock was playing at.

But he let him be, reading a book while Sherlock munched chocolate and watched _Dangerous Liaisons_.  Occasionally Sherlock made a comment: from a mild “that’s not what **I** would have said,” to all but shouting, **“can’t you see that he’s lying to you?”**

Oh, joy.  Another peaceful night in with Sherlock Holmes.

After the movie Sherlock paced around the living room, muttering.  John caught the words “elaborate ruse” and “vanity and cruelty” and “the sweetest times of my life.”

At length Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at John.  “He really loved her.”

“Sorry, what?”

“The Vicomte.  Valmont.  All his schemes, all his lies to win a game, and he actually ended up falling in love with Madame de Tourvel.”

“Ye-es,” John said slowly.

“He died in a duel.  And she died from a broken heart.”

“I **have** seen the film, Sherlock,” John said.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.  “She was so good.  So pure.  Open, passionate.  She was everything that he wasn’t.  And yet…”

John looked at him.  Sherlock wore the expression he wore when he was deciphering a clue.  But the words coming out of his mouth made John wonder exactly how much chocolate he’d consumed.  And whether he’d washed it down with a healthy dose of lunacy.

“There’s something I need to do,” Sherlock said, grabbing his coat.

“I’ll just stay here, then?”

Sherlock glanced at him, picked up a notepad and a pen and scribbled like mad.  “Do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Get on your laptop and find me every song used in these three movies.  Buy them, borrow them, I don’t care what.  Use my card if you need.  But get me the soundtracks to them.”

John glanced down at the paper Sherlock handed him.  “ _Dangerous Liaisons_ … _Romeo & Juliet_, the DiCaprio/Danes version… and… _Love Story_?  Sherlock, have you lost all your sense?  Why do you… oh.  Hang on.  You know something, don’t you.”

Sherlock blinked.  “John, if I knew anything I’d tell you, wouldn’t I? You’re my best friend, after all.  And I was… so alone before you.”

John stared.  Sherlock gave him an odd look and left.

After he was gone, John started searching for the songs.  But his mind was on what had just happened.

Sherlock had repeated back something John had said at his grave.

Something private.  Something… secret, in a sense.

Telling him something without telling him.  But what?  And why?  Why all this bizarre behavior?

John tapped on the keys and blew out a frustrated breath, reading the paper more closely.  He squinted and frowned. Some of the letters were darker than the others.  It was almost as if Sherlock was…

It took him a few minutes to figure it out.  When he did he gasped.

_Oh, no._

_Oh, God, no._

Sherlock stormed out of the building and started walking like a man possessed.

It didn’t take long for the phone to ring.

Sherlock wrenched it open.  “I will not do this!” he hissed.

“Ooo, in a bit of a snit, are you?  What’s the matter, didn’t you like the movie?  It’s one of my favorites.”

“It would be,” Sherlock snapped.  “I am telling you right here, right now, I will NOT do this!”

“Do what, Sherlock?”  Moriarty asked, dropping his voice to sound like a caress.

“I will NOT pretend to fall in love with Molly and you kill one or both of us because of it.  I won’t!”

“Oh, but you will.  You know you will.  Because bombs are loud things, Sherlock.  They can keep you awake at night.  And besides.  You still think you can beat me.  That alone would make you pretend to fall in love with the devil.”

“You ARE the devil,” Sherlock whispered.

“Not quite.  But thank you.  And now it’s time for the next step.  But since you gave me such a **lovely** compliment, I’ll throw my lovesick puppy a bone: you’re on the right track.  Too bad it’s the wrong train.”

Sherlock sighed.  “What do you want me to do next?”

When Sherlock came back, John had all the songs separated into folders by the film waiting on the laptop.  “Here you go,” John said.

“Thank you.”  Sherlock sat down, eyes flicking over the screen as if debating something.  He clicked on the Romeo & Juliet folder and started reading the song titles.

Before he could hit play on the first one he’d chosen, John yawned.  “Goodness, I’m tired.  More tired than I was the night of the Christmas party.  Do you remember that, Sherlock?”

“Of course I do, I was here.”

“I love Christmas,” John continued.  “The surprise of it all, you know?  Never knowing what you’re gonna get because it’s all a secret.  Other people know but they can’t tell you, of course.  And then later you find out.”

Sherlock’s eyes met his sharply.  “I suppose that appeals to some people, yes.”

“Bit like a birthday, too, I suppose.  Anyway, I’m off to bed.  Will I see you in the morning?”

“Briefly.  Molly gets discharged tomorrow.  I’m taking her home and visiting with her for a bit.”

“You are?”

“Yes.  I am.  Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not.  That’s… nice of you to do.”

“She’s had a rough time.  She could use someone to be nice to her.”

“No one she’d rather have more than you, I suppose,” John said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“OK.  Night, then.  Oh, by the way, I wrote down how much everything cost for you.”  John gestured at a slip of paper.

“Thank you.”

As soon as John left the room, Sherlock looked at the piece of paper.

_Let me know how I can help._

Sherlock almost laughed out loud. _Bless you, John Watson._

He crumpled the paper up and threw it away.  “It’s ridiculous how much music costs,” he muttered, and hit the PLAY button for the song.

Sherlock woke the next morning earlier than usual for him.  But he didn’t get up.  He laid in bed and thought.  And thought.

 _Right track, wrong train._   What did it mean?

He had to figure the plan out.  Soon.

For now he had to get ready to focus his attention on Molly for the first part of the day.  When Moriarty had told him what to do, Sherlock had nearly felt sick.  He’d wanted to refuse, to smash that damnable mobile against the wall and then shoot it a few times for good measure.  But he couldn’t.

All this love business Moriarty was forcing him to fill his head with.  He knew it was clues; knew the answer was hiding in everything Moriarty made him watch or listen to.  But there was a feeling, an awful feeling of dread and doubt with every ring of the phone, the chorus of every song.  Because he knew.  And Moriarty knew.

Sherlock Holmes knew nothing about romantic love.

Oh, he knew particulars.  He knew how to spot cheaters and lovers and that you were supposed to pay compliments and buy presents.  He knew caring was a weakness and love was more dangerous than a tiger let loose from a cage.  But firsthand experience? Personal knowledge?

Not a bit.

He wondered if Moriarty had ever loved anyone.  Probably not.  That man only loved himself.  He’d probably played any number of games with women and men.  But not love.  So what pleasure did Moriarty get from making him immerse himself in a romantic pageant?

He sighed.  That much, he knew.  He detested it.  It was feelings, not facts.  No hard evidence, no one to show off how clever he was to.  Emotional rubbish.  All the stuff he couldn’t stand.

Naturally, Moriarty wanted to shove his face in it.

He glanced at the clock.  Time to get up and get ready.

He took extra care with his teeth, hair and shaving his face. He dressed in his plum colored shirt and a pair of dark grey trousers.  It was Molly’s favorite outfit of his.  He knew from the way she’d looked at him shyly a dozen times the first night he’d wore it in her presence.   New socks, polished shoes, grey jacket perfect.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly wound the dark blue cashmere scarf she’d bought him for Christmas around his neck.  He remembered his horrible behavior and felt an uncustomary revisiting of shame.  Molly hadn’t deserved his cruelty.  She also didn’t deserve this.

He felt sorrow trying to invade his thoughts and ruthlessly shoved at it.  But it didn’t all leave.  It left behind a dirty shadow.

_I’m betraying you, Molly.  But it’s not silver I’m selling you for.  It’s your life, and my life, and thousands of other lives.  And my only comforts are that if you knew, you’d give your life to save another’s, and that I am going to stop him._

Damn.  All this emotion he’d been force fed was playing at his mind.

He shook his head and put on his coat.  John hadn’t left his room yet, which was a bit odd but not unheard of.  “John?  I’m leaving now for hospital to get Molly,” he called.

“That’s great, Sherlock,” John replied faintly.  “I’ve ah, got a bit of a sick stomach at the moment…”

“Right.”  That was all he needed to know.  He left, strode down the stairs to the outside door and pulled it open.

And came face to face with Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Lestrade looked him over and smiled.  “Sherlock.  Before you run off, I’d like to have a word with you.”

Damn. 

Lestrade showing up could only mean one of two things.  Actually, strike that.  It meant two of two things.  And he was in no mood to deal with either.  Luckily that fit perfectly into the part he had to play today.

“Sorry, Lestrade, but I’m rather in a hurry and in danger of being late for an appointment.”

“No you’re not,” Lestrade said smoothly.  “I called Molly and told her you’d be running a bit behind schedule.”

Sherlock blinked. “Why did…”

“Oh good God, what, have you not had any coffee or nicotine patches yet?  Did you really think no one would find out you were taking Molly home?  Or that you’d paid her a long visit, watched a movie together and bought her flowers?”

“Your little rant implies that I was attempting to do all those things in secret, Detective Inspector, which is hardly the case.  I was merely surprised that **you** would be interested in such **mundane** matters.”

“Mundane matters.  The greatest criminal mind of the century is after you like a hound to a fox and you call it a mundane matter.”

“I was referring to my… association with Molly.”

“Yeah, we’ll get to that bit in a minute,” Lestrade said.

“What bit?”

“That bit.”

“What, that bit that isn’t any of your business bit?”

“Sherlock, **where**  is Moriarty?  The world in general still has mixed reviews about you, you know.  Catching him would go a long way in clearing your name up once and for all.”

“Thank you, Lestrade, that hadn’t occurred to me at **all**.”

“What are you doing to solve the case?”

“Oh, the usual: drinking coffee, wearing nicotine patches, wasting valuable time arguing with a detective inspector-”

“This isn’t funny, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took a step closer to Lestrade, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes.  “I assure you, Lestrade, that I am not joking.”

“You want to know what I’m doing?  Fine.  I’m looking for clues.  I’m coming up with theories.  I’m searching for answers.  And I’m taking Molly home from hospital and asking her out on a proper date.  Anything else I can help you with?”

“Sherlock, you’d better not be withholding evidence…”

“I’m not.  I know he’s planning, he’s playing a game with me.  But I don’t know what it is yet.  When I can tell you something, I will.”

“You’d better, because… hang on: did you just say you’re going to ask Molly out on a date?”

“No, I said I was going to ask her out on a **proper** date.  Do pay attention, Lestrade.”

“A date.  You’re asking Molly out on a date.  Molly Hooper.”

“Is there another Molly we’re both acquainted with?”

“Sherlock just what the hell are you playing at?”

“Sorry?”

“Why are you asking Molly out on a proper, or any other kind, of date?  You don’t date.  You’re married to your work, relationships are dull, that sort of thing.”  Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.  “Oh.  I get it.”

“Get what?”

“You sodding idiot.  You’re asking her out because you feel guilty, aren’t you?  Just a little bone you’re throwing her to ease your conscience.”

Sherlock gave him a dark, angry look.  “My conscience?  According to you and most everyone else, I don’t have one!  Or guilt, or any other emotion!”

“That’s crap and we both know it,” Lestrade snapped.  “All right, maybe you do care something about her in your own twisted up way.  But Sherlock, she’s in love with you.  Really desperately in love, sad to say.  You can’t just go take her out on a date and then go back to treating her like you used to.  It’ll hurt her in ways you can’t comprehend.”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a minute.  When he opened them he stared at Lestrade with something that, were he any other man, Lestrade would’ve called sadness.

“Is that what you think of me?” he asked quietly.  “Do you really think so little of me that you believe I’d ask Molly out just to make myself feel better?  That even I am so stupid that I don’t know it would devastate her?”

Lestrade glanced down.  “No, I don’t, Sherlock.  But you have to agree this is madness.  What on earth could’ve made you decide you wanted to… go on a date?”

“Let’s just say that I’ve started to see my life in a different light since I faked my death,” Sherlock said softly.  “And after seeing Molly hurt, that I’ve come to realize that there may be room in it for things I never thought I wanted.”

Lestrade shook his head in amazement.  “Well, I’m happy for you, but damn, it’s bloody awful that it took you ‘dying’ and Molly being attacked to bring it all home to you.”

“Life rarely works the way we plan it, Lestrade.”

Lestrade mustered a smile.  “Well off you go, then.  Keep me updated on the case, though!”

“Of course.”

“And treat Molly properly.  She’s a good girl and she deserves the best.”

“Yes, she does,” Sherlock murmured as he moved past Lestrade.  “But for some reason, she wants me…”


	6. You Think You Know Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes Molly home and she performs a song for him.

Inside his taxi, Sherlock drew a ragged breath.

All right, he’d been able to fool Lestrade.  Well done there.  But Molly wasn’t Lestrade.  One down, one to go.  John, now that he knew something was amiss, would understand but still be genuinely shocked enough to make it work.

Against his will, Moriarty’s instructions replayed in his head.

_You’ll ask Molly on a proper date tomorrow.  And she’ll be stunned.  And she’ll question your motives if you’re not careful.  So you’ve got to convince her you’re sincere.  Pretend it’s all real.  If you really **had** changed after what happened, if you really **did** want to see if you could love her, how would you go about it?  What was that Dickinson poem?  Oh, yeah: ‘tell the truth, but tell it slant.’_

_To help you get ready, I want you to spend the taxi ride to the hospital thinking about Molly.  Nothing but Molly.  And don’t think about your usual little analysis you do of people to show them how clever you are and how ordinary they are.  No.  Think about Molly like you were the leading man in a romance movie.  You’ve finally realized how amazing the girl is and you want to tell her.  Think you can mange that?  I don’t.  But then, I’m the one holding the shiny red button, aren’t I.  I’ll win either way, but you’ll lose big if you can’t.  So break a leg, Sherlock._

There was no way, of course, that Moriarty could know what was in his head.  But Sherlock did need to think more.  So he forced his heartbeat to slow down and his mind to focus, and turned his thoughts to one Molly Hooper.

Leading man.  Romance movie.  Right. 

Well.

In some ways, Molly really was wonderful.  She was fiercely loyal, could keep secrets, was completely trustworthy.  She wasn’t flashy or showy and spoke her mind regardless of the consequences sometimes.

He blinked.  Rather like him.  Except he didn’t always realize or care whether or not he hurt people and she did.  Compassionate.  That was the word.

She was more observant than he’d once thought and more perceptive than he used to give her credit for.  And despite her mouth being small, she was not exactly unattractive in an inconspicuous way.

Right.  Lots of good things he could say about Molly Hooper now that he thought about it.

But where was that… something?  That piece to the puzzle that made the men in these movies realize they desperately wanted the woman?  What was it?  He didn’t feel it.  Then again, why would he?  This was all a game, a heinous charade he was being forced to act out by a lunatic.  Why **would** he feel a desperate desire to be with Molly?

He wouldn’t, of course.

So why did that bother him?

He snorted.  It would help matters, was all.  If only he did have some feelings for her.  Make it much easier.  That was all.

Sherlock refused to think that it could be anything else.

All right, he’d come up with a concrete list of things he… well… liked, he supposed, about Molly.  Now for the next part: how to convince her he now saw her in a different light. 

Moriarty had more movies for him to watch that were supposed to help him before the date tomorrow night.  He brought up the text again, frowning.  _Jerry Maguire_ … _Bridget Jones’ Diary_ … oh, God, more romantic comedies, he just knew it.  He wondered for a moment if Moriarty really thought he needed help, or if he just liked making him ill.  Probably both.

He’d tried on the sly the night before to get a location on Moriarty based on the texts, but no go.  He needed to figure to get a trace while they talked.  He had an idea on how to do that, but it was too soon.  He needed to wait for the right time: a time that wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary to talk longer.  That time would probably be tomorrow morning. 

The taxi pulled up at St. Bart’s, and Sherlock paid and left, staring up at where Molly’s room was.  He opened the door and headed for the stairwell, wrapped in half-formed ideas and disquieted thoughts.

The plot was about to thicken.

Molly smiled at Sherlock as he entered her room.  A nurse was with her, having her sign discharge paperwork, no doubt.  When that was finished the woman said: “there we go, dearie.  Let me just help you gather your things-” her hand reached for the vase of roses Sherlock had bought Molly.

Quicker than almost even Sherlock’s eyes could register, Molly snatched the vase away from the nurse.  “Oh, I’ll get these, thanks,” she said, her voice polite but with an undertone that made Sherlock raise his eyebrows in amusement.  So, Molly did have some bite to her.

He strode forward, greeted Molly cheerfully, and began gathering the rest of Molly’s belongings.  The nurse stared at him, frowning. “Pardon me,” she began, but Sherlock cut her off at the pass.

“Certainly, madam.  Now, if you’d be so kind as to move this along?  I’m sure Molly is as ready to go home as I am to take her.”

The nurse blinked, and Molly did a double take.  “Yes, sir,” the woman said faintly, helping Molly settle into a wheelchair while Sherlock phoned for a taxi.

As soon as they were outside a taxi pulled up, and Molly settled into it with a sigh.  Sherlock sat down beside her, and after giving the driver Molly’s address turned  to look at her with a slight smile.

“Sorry about that.  I just figured you were ready to be home.”

“More than ready,” Molly sighed.  “Although it’ll be strange having plainclothes policemen keeping an eye around.”  She clutched her vase of flowers tightly.  “I just hope he doesn’t come after me again.”

“I think it highly unlikely,” Sherlock said.

Molly smiled.  He wouldn’t lie to her, and he definitely wouldn’t say something just to try and cheer her up.  “Good.”

“Thank you so much for this,” she added.  “Collecting me and seeing me home.”

“It is… my pleasure,” Sherlock said, and the way he hesitated in the middle of the sentence gave Molly pause.  She looked at him closely, but his face was as smooth as ever.  It was like trying to get a clue from a slab of polished marble.  Useless.

Or was it?

She’d seen him with that calm, neutral face before.  “ _Molly, I think I’m going to die.”_

Maybe even Sherlock Holmes could have things he didn’t want people to see.  Maybe **especially** Sherlock Holmes.  He’d looked sad in front of her.  She had thought it was because she didn’t count so he didn’t care if she saw.  Then he had to haul off and tell her she **did** count and always had.  She glanced down at her hands, the fingers locked tight around the flowers.

So… why had he done it?  Why had he let her see?  What was it about her that he’d let her see that but not John?  Well, John was his best friend.  And she was…

Molly didn’t know what she was.  If someone had offered her a million pounds at that moment to answer the question she’d have lost.  Sherlock Holmes was dangerously close to acting like a real human being and Molly found it very unsettling.

She’d imagined the sadness bit was just he was comfortable with her on some bizarre level.  The counting bit…well, of course he could consider her… something.  He’d literally put his life in her hands, after all.  No one else was going to help him fake his death the way she did.  He’d trusted her with something immeasurably precious.  Himself.  So she did in fact count.  She just wasn’t sure she understood how.

“Well, here we are,” Sherlock said brightly, and Molly jerked her head up, started, to see that they were at her flat.  He helped her out, paid the driver and got her bags from the back, then followed her as she went up to the door.  A wave of paranoia burst through her and she instinctively tried the door to see if it was still locked.

It was.

“If he wanted in here without you knowing, he’d have done it,” Sherlock murmured, and she jumped. 

She refrained from saying “sorry:”  after all, she wanted to be safe and had no need to apologize for that.  She simply nodded and pushed open the door.

He followed her in, eyes rapidly flickering over her belongings, cataloging  and deducing.  Molly felt like cringing.  Not that her flat was a mess, but it was just, well, full of her things.  Her books and videos and stuffed animals and keepsakes and bras and knickers scattered all over her bed…

Molly squeaked.  She’d forgotten that she’d done some laundry the day before the attack, and now all her underwear was out on display on her bed.

“Is something wrong?”

“Um, I’ll be right back,” she told him, setting down her flowers and all but running into her bedroom and closing the door.

Sherlock watched her go, genuinely amused.  He might have told her it was silly, that he’d already noticed her underwear  both on the bed and in person, but he didn’t.  She was obviously embarrassed, although there was nothing wrong with the items in question.  Cotton hipster knickers, simple but in colors instead of plain white, which meant she liked the comfort but also wanted to feel attractive.  Bras in matching colors, which spoke of her like of symmetry.

No, nothing for her to be embarrassed about at all, except that it was obviously one of those things women got flustered about.  So while he waited he busied himself with studying her living room in more detail.

He stopped short when he saw the keyboard in one corner.  Molly could play piano?  He hadn’t known that.  He’d never seen anything that would’ve made him deduce it.  Or that she had a strong liking for some American show called _Glee_.  Or that there would be romance novels mixed with medical texts and spy thrillers. 

Sherlock blinked.  How did he know so much about her, yet so little?

Because he’d never needed to.

He’d known everything he needed to know about her from the hospital and right after his fake suicide.

Why would he have wanted to know this much more?

That was perilously close to getting to know someone.

He didn’t get to know anyone.  Not that much.  He knew John, but that was his best friend.  Molly was…

At that moment, he wasn’t quite sure what Molly was.

She was his friend, he knew that.  But was he hers?  Moriarty aside, did he want to be?

He realized to his shock that he did.  Had, actually, wanted to already.

Well, she’d done so much for him.  It was probably only natural  that he’d taken a bit, a tiny bit, more interest in her life.  Even before the attack.  Yes.  When someone did so much for you, there was an instinct to offer something in return.  Of course.  Perfectly logical explanation.

Perfectly.

Molly emerged from her bedroom with a smile.  “Sorry to keep you waiting.  I just, ah, needed to take care of something.”

He inclined his head and moved towards the kitchen.  “Would you like coffee, or tea?”

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

He turned and stared at her. “I know I don’t.  So which would you prefer?”

“Tea, please,” Molly said, watching him go with wide eyes.  No, right now she definitely did not need extra caffeine.  Sherlock being in her flat and making her something to drink was all her nerves could handle.

She sat on the sofa, hands twisting absently in her lap until she caught herself doing it and stopped.  She missed Toby.  He would curl up in her lap, purr, and make her forget everything.  OK, no one could do that.  But he would help.  Her old neighbor Diane had been keeping him and would bring him back tomorrow.  Until then she was all alone.

“Here you are, Molly,” Sherlock’s deep voice announced, standing beside her and handing her a cup.  OK, not alone, exactly.  But sometimes being with Sherlock was pretty close to it.

They drank their tea in silence: Sherlock looking pensive and Molly wondering.  Why was he still here?  Why had he done anything he’d done the past few days?  Boredom?  No.  Not even Sherlock was that cold.  Then what? It was almost as if he…

 _Get that stupid, stupid thought out of your head right now, Molly Hooper,_ she commanded herself. _Sherlock Holmes is about as interested in you as he is a melon.  Which is-_

“I didn’t know you play piano, Molly,” Sherlock said.

_Which is… a little?_

She blinked.  “Oh.   Yes.  I, ah, studied music when I was younger.  I sing, too,” she added, and immediately wanted to kick herself.  _Great.  Now he’s got even more ammunition to put in that big gun of his…_

“Sing for me, Molly.”

She jerked shocked eyes up to meet his.  “Wha-sorry, what?”

“Sing for me,” he repeated, and his voice made her want to wrap up in a blanket to keep from shivering.

She swallowed hard.  How could she possibly do it?  She got tongue-tied half the time just talking to him!  “Sherlock, I don’t-”

“Please,” he said softly, and something she couldn’t define in his eyes stole her breath.  “Please, Molly.”

Oh, God.

Apparently, Sherlock Holmes liked melon after all.

He wanted her to sing for him.  He.  Sherlock Holmes.  Wanted her, Molly Hooper, to sing for him.

Even as she cowered inside, another part of her whispered: _go on._   _Show him.  Show him you’re more than just a stammering nitwit.  Even if he think it’s rubbish, you can say you tried._

She nerves felt like frayed cotton, but she nodded.  “All right.  Any requests?”

“No, choose what you like,” he said.

She nodded again and walked to the keyboard as if in slow motion.  She sat down, flexing her fingers, trying desperately to think of what would impress him.  In the end, she decided just to be true to herself.  And then she knew at once what to sing.

She took a deep breath and poised her fingers.  She summoned all the courage she had, met his eyes, and struck the notes as she closed her eyes and let the music, the words, claim her. 

_And who do you think you are?_ _running around leaving scars_   
_collecting your jar of hearts_ _and tearing love apart..._   
  


 She took a deep breath as she played the final notes and slowly opened her eyes to look at him again.

Sherlock was staring at her with the expression he usually only wore when he worked on a particularly fascinating case.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his.

He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from hers.

After a few more seconds, he cleared his throat.  “Molly… that… was amazing.”

She quashed the urge to ramble and simply smiled.  “Thank you.”

He was still staring at her. 

She desperately wanted him to stop.

She desperately wanted him to never stop.

He cleared his throat again and finally glanced down as if steadying himself for something.  Then he slowly rose and moved to stand beside her, pulling her up to her feet. His eyes locked with hers and suddenly there didn’t seem to be enough air in her flat to breathe.

“Molly… there’s something I want to ask you.”

 

 

"Jar of Hearts" by Christina Perri, copyright 2010 by Christina Perri.


	7. Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks Molly out on a date.

 “Oh, yes?” she replied, trying not to focus on the fact that he was THISclose to her.  She rarely got to be THISclose to him.  Only when he had apologized to her, or told her he needed her, or thanked her for saving him…

Oh, God.  What was about to happen!

“Why don’t we sit down,” Sherlock suggested, noticing she’d suddenly turned a bit pale. 

Molly nodded, following him to the sofa.  He waited until she sat down then sat next to her.

**Right** next to her.

THISclose next to her.

Oh, God.

“What’s happening?” she blurted out.

“Molly, calm down.”

“You’re sitting next to me.  Right next to me.”

“Your deductive skills amaze me,” he said, but his tone was… teasing?  Not caustic?  Not sarcastic?

She drew a deep breath.  “I don’t understand this, Sherlock.”

“And you won’t, if you don’t allow me to speak,” he replied with a slight smile.

“Right.”  She took another deep breath, exhaled slowly, and waited.

He stood up and paced a bit.  Finally he turned back to face her.

“I know you’re wondering what’s going on.  And I don’t blame you.  Our interactions haven’t always been the most…well.  Let’s just say I’ve not always treated you the way you deserve to be treated.”

Oh.  After all she’d done, and then getting attacked, he felt bad about his behavior.  Well, she’d figured it was something like that, hadn’t she? She blamed him for being a git, but not for her being attacked.  Surely he knew that?  “Sherlock…”

“Please, Molly, let me continue.”

She nodded.  He seemed to be thinking of how to say what he wanted to say.  After a pause he went on.

“Despite my remarkable skills at deduction, I’ve usually been at a loss to understand… sentiment.  I was able to keep my feelings separate, put away, not to be examined.  Until Moriarty came along.”

“When he strapped Semtex to John, it hurt.  When I thought of the gunmen killing John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, I experienced it again.  Faking my death, the things I said… more.  You being attacked… well, you get the idea.  But my “death,” and everything leading up to it, everything that came after it… it’s changed me, Molly.  And I wish I could say it hadn’t.  Because it frightens me and I don’t like it.”

Molly was too stunned to say anything at that moment.  Sherlock, admitting to feelings? To her?  Had they dosed her with something they’d forgotten to mention before she left hospital?  She had to be imagining it.

“It’s made me realize things, Molly.  And one of those things is… how I feel about you.”

Molly blinked.  “I’m sorry, how you… what... did you say?”

He smiled a brief burst of a smile.  “Yes, Molly.  That’s what I said.”

“Erm…”

“I couldn’t understand it at first, why I kept thinking about you, wondering how you were, what you were doing.  I’m not entirely sure of when I did understand.  I think it was when you were attacked.  And even when I did, I didn’t want that feeling, either.  But I couldn’t stop it.”

He looked away from her, then back again.  “Didn’t you wonder, when I said you’ve always counted?  Didn’t you wonder why I let you see me look sad?”

She eyes widened.  “I… I thought it was…”

“And so did I, at the time,” Sherlock said softly.  “But now I know it wasn’t.”

He sat beside her again.  “You’ve changed me, Molly.  You’ve shown me sides of humanity-of you-that I never understood. I’m still not entirely sure I do.  But for the first time... I feel as though I could.”

She sat motionless, staring at him, eyes wide.  He couldn’t decipher her expression.

“When you sang for me… it was like everything clicked.  All the pieces of the puzzle fit together.  I… I felt… whole, somehow.  Like something that had been ripped out of me had been replaced.  And I’m mad for wanting to keep it, but I do.”

He took her hands in his.  “So, Molly Hooper.  Would you do me the honor of going out with me, on a proper date, tomorrow night, one that involves me taking you somewhere nice and hopefully not being too much of an ass?”

Molly made a faint sound that could have been panic, dismay or elation and he didn’t know how to tell which it was.

Then she just sat staring at him like a statue.  She didn’t even blink.

“Molly?”

“I… did you just ask me out? On a... a proper DATE?”

Well at least **she** got it right.  While in a state of shock, no less.  Score one for Molly.

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Molly?”

“Ah, um…”  _Oh, God, Molly, what are you doing?  In ten seconds he’s going to decide you’re too much of a stammering nitwit and change his mind! Say something!  Anything!_

“Yes!” she shrieked.

He raised his eyebrows.

“I mean… yes, Sherlock,” she said in an almost normal voice.  A voice that amazingly wasn’t stuttering.  She looked him in the eye.  “Yes.  That would be lovely.  Thank you.  Yes is my answer.”

He smiled slightly.  Smirked, was more like it.  “Oh, good. I was worried you’d be all vague  about it.”

Molly laughed: a strangled but happy laugh.  He was teasing her.  Sherlock Holmes was smiling and teasing and had ASKEDHEROUTONAPROPERDATE!

She made a mental note to call Bart’s and tell them whatever they’d given her that morning she’d like a hundred more brought round to her flat right now that instant.

“Now that we’ve got that settled, is there anything you need from the market?  I can go to Tesco’s for you,” he said.

“Oh, no, thank you.  My friend Diane got all that sorted for me already.  She’s bringing Toby back tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you’ve missed him,” Sherlock said.

Molly smiled.  “I have, yes.  Luckily someone has been keeping my company, though.”

He tilted his head.  “Really?  Who?”

“Oh, go on with you!” Molly laughed, taking her hands from his and swatting at him playfully.  “I need a kip and you need to find Moriarty.”

He nodded.  “I’ll pick you up at seven, if that’s all right?  You’re not going back to Bart’s for three more days, am I correct?”

She laughed.  “You’re always correct and you know it.”

His face darkened a bit.  “Not always.  There’s always something I overlook until it’s too late.”

Molly wanted to kick herself.  She slowly reached out and took a hand in hers.

“You haven’t been too late to save the people that care about you,” she said softly.

He smiled faintly.  “No, I haven’t, have I?”

She squeezed his hand then released it.  “Nope.  Now, where are we going?  How should I dress?”

“Fashionable but not formal.  And as to where we’re going: now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, taking me on a mystery date, are you?”

“Mysteries **are** my specialty, Molly.”

She smiled as they stood up and walked to her door.  She glanced at him shyly as she opened it.  “I’m.. I look forward to it, Sherlock.”

He studied her for a few seconds.  “So do I.”

He learned down and kissed her cheek.  “Text me if anything happens.  Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Yes.  Tomorrow night.  Until then, Sherlock.”

He smiled.  “Until then.”

She closed the door, and he started walking, pulling out his phone to get a taxi, trying and failing to ignore the slight shaking of his hands.

He walked until he met the taxi.  As he headed back to the video store and then Baker Street, he laced his fingers together and squeezed them until they hurt.  It calmed the shaking, but nothing at that moment could calm his thoughts.

He’d expected Molly to have a decent singing voice.  People who were rubbish at something natural didn’t study it.  What he hadn’t expected was that, by singing, she would be transformed into someone else.  A Molly who was strong and powerful, a Molly who would never stutter around him.  A Molly who had a voice so beautiful that angels would surely stick their heads out of the clouds to hear her sing.

She had completely captivated him while she sang.  And it scared him.

It was all supposed to be part of the plan.  Part of Moriarty’s game.  Did he know she could sing?  They’d only been on three dates, she’d said.  Had she sang this way for “Jim from IT”?  Had he been at all moved by her voice?

The thought made Sherlock faintly ill.

Moriarty was going to leave him alone for now.  He could sense it.  He was sitting somewhere laughing at how it had all played out.  Just like a movie.

Sherlock found himself wishing Moriarty had been eating popcorn as he listened… and choked on it.

He was going to leave him alone with his thoughts.  Make him keep all that stuff locked inside his head.  Or so the bastard thought.  Sherlock was thankful once again that, despite him having a mostly ordinary mind, John Watson did have the ability to figure some things out.  Now he just had to figure out how to play it to John, to tell him without telling him or being too obvious.

He’d have to figure out where to take Molly (he was sure said bastard would be helpful there), how to act, how to end the date.  He’d also have to figure out how to stop hearing her voice in his head. 

As insane as it was, he wanted to hear her sing again. 

He shook his head to clear it.  He had to focus.

He couldn’t be distracted right now.

Later, when he was finished with everything for the night, he’d put more thought into it.

But really, he was at a loss as to whether it would do any good.


	8. Love Plus One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells John about his date and receives instructions from Moriarty.

John wasn’t in when he got back: probably at the drugstore getting medicine for his stomach.  Sherlock sat at his laptop and started playing _Jerry Maguire_. He’d just gotten to the part where Jerry and Dorothy got married, and was on his third dark chocolate bar, when John came bustling in with a bag.

“Ah, you’re home,” John greeted.  “How’s Molly?”

“Glad to be home,” Sherlock said, pausing the movie.  “Did you know Molly can play piano?”

John sat the bag-and himself-down in a chair.  “No.  Had no idea.  Is she any good?”

“She’s exceptional.  And she sings exceptionally well, too.”

“Huh,” John said, not sure what else to say. 

Sherlock turned to fully face him.  “Listen... John… there’s something I want to tell you.”

“Is it about Moriarty?  Have you found something?”

“Not yet, though I think I’m on the right track.  No, this is about Molly.”

John shook his head.  “I have to tell you, Sherlock, you’ve been very strange.  Normally you’d be out hunting clues-”

“I am hunting clues,” Sherlock snapped.  “Just not in a way you’re accustomed to.”

“If you say so.  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Moriarty was sending you love notes.”

 _Is he?_   John’s eyes asked.

Sherlock shook his head.  “No, he’s not sending me love notes, don’t be ridiculous.  To send love notes, you have to be capable of love.”

“You’re becoming an expert on that it seems.  Love, I mean.”

“Yes, well… I have my reasons.”

John sighed.  “Ok, sorry, you were saying something about Molly?”

“Yes.  I’m taking her out tomorrow night.”

Sherlock sat back and waited.

He deduced that he’d wait four seconds.

He only got to two and John said: “sorry, you what? Did you just say you’re going out?  With Molly?  Like, what, like, on a DATE, you mean?”

“Yes, on a date I mean.  Good Lord, I should just hold up a little card for the entire world to read and get it over with,” Sherlock groaned.

“You’re going… you’re going on… Sherlock, JIM MORIARTY IS OUT THERE SOMEWHERE AND YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE?”

“So glad you approve.”

“I-no, no, I don’t approve, not one bloody bit.  What the HELL is wrong with you?  Moriarty aside for a minute, Molly is in love with you, why on earth would you go on a date with her!”

“Well she **has** skipped some steps, but I’m not going to hold it against her,” Sherlock said mildly, and John jumped up and started to pace.  “I’m going on a date with her because… it’s what I want to do, all right? It’s not like someone is twisting my arm or anything.”

Their eyes locked.

 _IS he?_ John’s look asked.

 _Yes,_ Sherlock’s answered.

John laughed.  “This is insane, Sherlock.  You, of all people, going on a date. WHY are you?  Why Molly?  Why now?”

“It’s just time,” Sherlock said softly.  “Time for there to be more in my life than… severed heads and sarcasm.  And Molly… I care for her, John.  Even you must have noticed that.”

John rubbed his chin, for once ignoring the unintentional jibe.  “I might have done… but I dismissed it.  I mean, come on.  You?  Feelings? How could that happen?”

“You know I have feelings,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, but… for Molly?  Fuzzy lumpkin feelings?”

“Fuzzy what?”

“Never mind,” John said hastily.  _Ah.  Old nickname from a teenage sweetheart._

“Romance, Sherlock? Hearts and flowers and sex and giggling?  From you?”

“There’s been no sex, thank you very much.  I said I was taking her out on a date, not treating her like my personal whore. No giggling, either.  Well, none from me.”

“But why Molly?”

“Oh, hell, are you listening to me?  I care for her, John!  WHY is that so hard to understand?”

“Because you are Sherlock Holmes who thinks feelings are rubbish!”

“Used to think it,” Sherlock corrected him.  “Now… I’m not sure.”

John stared.  Sherlock nodded.

“Do you love her?”

“No.  But… I smile with her, John.  I like just being with her.  She sang for me, John.  And after that, she didn’t stutter.  Well, nowhere near as much as usual.”

“But she loves you, Sherlock.  If this is just, I dunno, some experiment, you might end up hurting her.”

“Believe me, I have no desire to see Molly get hurt,” Sherlock said, a warning gleam in his eyes.  “I couldn’t stand it if anyone hurt her.  I’d do anything to not let that happen.” _Even pretend to fall in love with her._

John gave a tiny nod.  “I trust you.  This is just…”

“It seems insane, I know,” Sherlock said.  “But believe me, John: I know what I’m doing.”

John exhaled loudly.  “Well.  This explains a lot, actually.  With the movies and chocolate and all.  You’ve been doing research because of Molly, not to find Moriarty.”

“I’m working on that too.  Trust me.  He may not be finished with her.”

“He’s definitely not finished with you.  And he hasn’t killed anyone yet, so he’s plotting.  Even I can deduce that.”

“Good work, Sherlock,” Sherlock said wryly, and John burst out laughing.

“Well, this is all lunacy, but I know how you are when your mind is made up.  So just let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Like teach me how to behave on a date?”

John smirked.  “I’m a doctor, Sherlock.  Not a miracle worker.”

“If you say so.  Now let me finish this movie and we can have dinner.”

“Oh, ah, well…”

“Still not ready for solid food?”

“No,” John said with a grimace.  “In fact…” he rushed off.

Sherlock sighed.  John got it.  Well, a bit.  But he’d understood enough.  Sherlock decided to figure out his next steps after the movie.  He hit the PLAY button.  “Well.  Let’s just see what happens to these two ridiculous people, shall we?”

Hours later, Sherlock lay in bed, doing what he did best and almost hating it.

The movies had been predictable.  Even though he had to admit there had been a few bits that made him laugh. Just a bit.  And scoff.  If that was truly how love was, how on earth did ordinary people manage to get anything done?

Under the pretext of writing out good lines to use, and wanting John to inspect them, he’d managed to give John a coded message that gave his friend a rough idea of what was happening.  Not the whole story: just some bits.  Technically he hadn’t told anyone about the game.  He’d made sure he didn’t do that.  But John now knew there was a method to his madness.  He was playing it out extraordinarily well, which was good.  The last thing Sherlock wanted was for Moriarty to know someone knew anything at all and create a boom.

Tomorrow morning Moriarty would call.  He’d have instructions.  And Sherlock would have questions.   For now he was turning everything over in his head.

He’d figured out what Moriarty had meant by “right track, wrong train.”  He wasn’t going to kill them.  Then what, exactly, was his plan?  How long did he think Sherlock could go on pretending to like Molly?  All their lives?  What was his plan?

Thinking of Molly brought back memories of her flat and her singing.  All right, be honest: it had stirred some genuine… something in him.  But that was all rubbish.  He couldn’t allow himself the handicap of love.  Even if Molly did have more than met the eye.  He’d never been in love in his life and he wasn’t about to start now.  Absolutely not.

Good.  It was settled.

He pushed the memory of her voice out of his thoughts.

When he slept, however, it was another matter entirely.

Sherlock awoke the next morning to the sound of his phone ringing.

“Rise and shine, Sherlock!” Moriarty’s voice rang out.  “Tonight’s the big night!”

“I am well aware of that,” Sherlock said, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

“Yeah, I bet you are, you sly dog.”  He could almost feel the glee in the man’s voice.  It made Sherlock want to punch something.  Like Moriarty’s face.

“So.  Tell me all about my date with Molly.  I’m sure you’ve got it all planned, don’t you?”

“Darlin’, I planned this weeks ago,” Moriarty purred.

“I bet you did, **you sly dog** ,” Sherlock said with false sweetness.

Moriarty chuckled.  “I know this is your first date.  Are you nervous?”

“Only because I don’t know what you’re got planned.”

“For the date or in general?”

“Both, obviously.”

“Patience, fuzzy lumpkin,” Moriarty said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “I must say, I don’t know how you think I can pull this off.”

“You’re an actor.  I’ve seen it.  Just pretend you’re trying out for a part in a movie.”

“Which movie would that be: Sherlock Maguire or Molly Hooper’s Diary?”

“Ooh, someone needs some coffee,” Moriarty smirked.  “You’re not very sweet when you first wake up, are you? Poor Molly.  I hope that won’t be too rough on her.”

Sherlock’s restless fidgeting stilled as an icy chill shot through him.  “If you think I am having sex with Molly tonight, you are very much mistaken.”

“Of course I don’t,” Moriarty said indignantly.  “Don’t be dull.”

“Good.”

“Not on the first date.  That would ruin everything.”

“Not on **any** date,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

“Ding, dong! Hello? Bomb squad? Oh, sorry, too late!”

“Stop this!” Sherlock hissed.

“No.  **You** stop it, Sherlock.  You’ll do what I say, when I say.  Or… BOOM!”

“You are without question the most insane, sadistic person I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet!”

“You forgot brilliant,” Moriarty said calmly.

Sherlock hissed again.  After a few seconds he sighed.  “Why are you doing this?  What do you possibly have to gain out of forcing me into a fake romantic relationship with Molly?”

“Oh, honey, let me count the ways! No, forget that.  It’s your job to figure it out, since you’re so clever.”

“Not clever enough to know where to take Molly on this date,” Sherlock said morosely.

“That’s easy.  A proper date, remember?  Dinner and dancing.”

“Dinner and… what?”

“Are you deaf, or did I stutter?” Moriarty said coldly.

“Dancing?”  Sherlock wasn’t sure which thought was the most absurd: him dancing, or Molly.

“You **can** dance, can’t you?”

“Of course I can,” Sherlock snapped.  Goodness knows he’d endured enough lessons as a child to remember the basics.  He’d never deleted that from his hard drive.  Perhaps because it had meant so much to his mother…

“Good.  Tonight is 80’s night at Club Aquarium.  Molly loooooves 80’s music.  She’ll be blown away that you knew.”

“You mean that in a good way, I hope,” Sherlock said archly.

“I told you.  Play the game and no one gets blown up. Including Molly.”

“Fine.  What about dinner?”

“Princess of Shoreditch.”

“A restaurant with the word princess in the name.  Lovely.”

“Molly will think so.  And I already told you.  She’s what counts in this relationship.”

“A good venue, I trust?”

“Consistent four-star rating.  Not too far from the club, either.  See how nicely I planned it out for you?”

“Oh, yes. **How can I ever repay you.”**

“We’ll figure something out, Sherlock.”

“I’m sure we will.”

“Dress nice for her.  You’re trying to win the girl, you know.”

“I don’t have to **win** her, I already **won** her years ago,” Sherlock said.  “I just… didn’t accept the prize.”

“Well now you are.  And that doesn’t mean you can be slack.  That’s why women stray, you know.”

“ **If** we were actually **in** a relationship, Molly wouldn’t leave me,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Fine, I will look nice for her.  Not that I was planning on doing otherwise.”

“Oh?”

“It’s bad enough you’re forcing me to do all this.  I don’t have to make Molly suffer in the process.”

“Oh, how sweet.  Gosh, Toto, does the Tin Man have a heart after all?” Moriarty asked with fake breathlessness.

“You said I do.  And that you were going to burn it out of me.”

“And I did.  But we both came back for more.  Why do you think that is, Sherlock?”

“Because… neither of us wanted to die?”

“For the **game** , Sherlock.  It’s always for the game.  You love to play.  Go on, admit it.”

“The only thing I will admit to you is that I’ve love to wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze,” Sherlock said venomously.

“Mmm.  Save all that fire for Molly.”

“What is this?  What is it all for?”

“I told you.  I want you to experience love.”

“It’s not real.  It won’t be real.  So why make me…”

_Oh._

“You don’t want to make me pretend to fall in love with Molly,” Sherlock said dully.  “You want to make me **fall** in love with her.”

“No more calls, we have a winner!”

“It won’t happen and you know it.”

“Care to bet some lives on that?”

“You can force me to go out with her, but you can’t force love.  Not for me, not for anyone.”

“How would you know?”  Moriarty asked softly.  “What do you know about love except making a big show of how it’s a weakness and too ordinary for the great Sherlock Holmes?”

“Is that your game?  You want to force me to admit that I’m capable of love?”

“No.  I want to force you to admit that you **are** in love.  When it happens.”

“It won’t.”

“I think you’re wro-ong,” Moriarty sang.

“It **won’t** ,” Sherlock insisted.

“OK, it won’t.  You’re right.  Shall I just kill all these people now, then?  Would you like to say bye to John and Mrs. Hudson before I blow you all up?”

“NO!” Sherlock shouted.

“Calm down, sweetie pie, you’re going to wake John up.  And he’s having such a rough go as it is.  All those stomach problems…”

“What are you doing to John!” Sherlock demanded.  “So help me, if you’re poisoning him…”

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt or kill John.  Yet.”

Sherlock felt as though he was caught in a web and staring at a hungry spider.  He fought down the shaking in his hands.  “If I do what you ask, when you ask…”

“No one gets hurt, Sherlock.  Just the opposite, in fact.  Everyone will be happy.  Molly, John, Mrs. Hudson… even you.”

Sherlock sighed in defeat.

“Why are you fighting it so hard?  You might like being in love.”

“Even if me falling in love was possible, I.Sincerely.Doubt.It.”

“It’s not your choice to make, so it doesn’t really matter, I suppose.  Anyway, back to the date.”

Sherlock took a deep breath.  Everyone was safe… for now.  All he had to do was let Moriarty think he was right while he tracked him down.  “Go on.”

“Be nice.  As much as you can.  Pay attention to her, compliment her: you know, all the things ordinary men do.”

“Of course.”

“At the club, when the right song comes on, ask her to dance.”

“How will I know what the right song is?”

“Good grief, you are a babe in the woods, aren’t you? Didn’t I just say **pay attention** to her?  You’ll know when to ask by the way she reacts.”

“Right.”

“Dance a few more songs with her during the night.  When you take her home, tell her you enjoyed it.  Ask her out again for the next night.  Tell her you know a lovely place for an evening picnic.  Kiss her good night.  A solid kiss but not too intense.  You have to build it up a bit, make it seem real.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“No.  Oh, one last thing: today watch the movie _How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days_. Off you go, then.  I can’t wait for seven o’clock!”

The line went dead.

Sherlock checked the time. Long enough to attempt to get a trace on the area.  Good. He’d do that as soon as he felt like getting up.  Meantime, he did what he’d wanted to do for the past two days.

He threw the phone on the floor and pulled the covers over his head.

He got up about thirty minutes later, heading for John’s laptop.  When John wandered in soon after, he found Sherlock online looking at the Club Aquarium and Princess of Shoreditch websites.

“Oh, taking Molly there?  That’s a nice restaurant from what I hear.  Not really-”

“Not really my area, yes, I know,” Sherlock said absently.  “But none of this is, so I figured I’d do a traditional date and get the worst part over with.”

“You silver-tongued devil,” John said sarcastically.  “I don’t know how any woman could resist you.”

Sherlock made a face.  John looked at the club’s website.  “Indoor pool.  Nice.  Tonight’s 80’s night at the club, I think.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock answered, opening up another website and plugging his new phone into the laptop.  “Molly loves 80’s music.  I’m putting some on my phone to listen to in the taxi.”

John blinked.  “Wow.”

Sherlock glanced up.  “What?”

“You’re really pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?”

“John, as long as you’ve known me, it must be evident to you that I don’t do anything in half measures.  Having decided to investigate the possibility of a romantic relationship, something I thought I would never do, I am being just as precise as if I was on a case.”

John drew his lips into a thin line and gave a small nod.  “Right.  Well, you’re consistent, Sherlock, I can say that for you.”

“For the most part,” Sherlock muttered cryptically.  He gave John his full attention.  “How are you feeling?”

“Better, actually, thanks.  I don’t know what was wrong with me, odd since I’m a doctor.  But it seems to be gone now.”

 ** _I_** _know_ , Sherlock thought grimly. _Moriartyitis._   But he simply replied: “good.”

“Yeah, and actually… I have a date tonight myself.”

“Really?”  Sherlock raised both eyebrows.  “A new one?”

“Yeah.  Her name’s Mary.  She’s a nurse.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have lots to talk about then,” Sherlock said, turning his attention back to the laptop and phone.

John stared.  “That’s it?”

“That’s what?”

“No sneers?  No disdainful deductions?  You acted… nice?  Sherlock, I think you’ve been bewitched!” John said in amazement.

Sherlock shook his head and pressed a button on his phone.  Duran Duran began to sing “Is There Something I Should Know?”

“Not bewitched, John,” Sherlock murmured as his friend walked away.  “Cursed.”

Sherlock studied himself in the mirror with a critical eye.  Dark blue shirt, black trousers, smelling faintly of soap and steam and John’s least offensive cologne, two nicotine patches concealed under his sleeve, hair tousled in the careless way that would probably play right into any fantasies Molly had about running her fingers through it.  Satisfied with his appearance, he took a long, slow breath.

He was going on a date.

A date.

AdatewithMollyHooper date.

Where he had to act… ordinary.  No.  He’d never act ordinary.  Even if he wanted to, Molly wouldn’t like it.  Him being decent, yes.  But not ordinary.  She hadn’t fallen in love with an ordinary man, now had she.  No.  For some unfathomable, inexplicable reason, she loved him.

“May God have mercy on her soul,” he murmured.

He’d have to eat something at dinner, or she’d feel very self-conscious and it would be awkward.  Well, he’d not eaten anything in two days but a dark chocolate bar, so that wouldn’t be a problem.  He mentally rehearsed a few things, some questions to ask her, some answers about the things she’d probably ask him. Well.  He was as ready for the date as he’d ever be.

He’d managed to do a partial trace on the call.  A blocked number was merely an obstacle, after all, not a dead end.  And Moriarty had told him he had to try and solve the case, so he didn’t consider it a breach of their agreement.  It had come from a residential area just outside London.  He’d research it more tomorrow.  For now, he was… oh, how had John put it when he’d borrowed some cologne?  “Losing his dating virginity.”  Ha, ha.

His other virginities that were at stake… Sherlock did not even want to think about.

He went out into the living room to fetch his coat, scarf and shoes, and was met by the sight of John putting on a jacket and studying himself in the mirror with the same critical expression Sherlock had worn only a little earlier.  Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him, observing and deducing.

_New shirt, crisply ironed…jacket has recently been cleaned… socks are a bit worn which means he forgot that part but the trousers are hemmed and the shoes are polished.  Small bit of deodorant and hint of cologne: he wants to smell nice but isn’t sure about any allergies or fragrance preferences she might have. He’s made a bit more effort than usual.  Showered about two hours ago, went to the cash machine about thirty minutes ago.  Nervous, eager expression that he’s trying to hide… he really thinks he’ll like this one.  Well.  My skills aren’t going soft with all of this looooove business, that’s for certain._

John smiled at him.  “Well.  Here we are.  The confirmed bachelor and the boffin detective, both going out on a date.”

“So it seems,” Sherlock answered, sitting down to put on his shoes.  “Where are you taking yours?”

“Dinner and a play.  Not as exciting as what you’ve got planned.”

“I doubt my date will be exciting.”

“Hey.  Molly’s a good girl, Sherlock.  Give her a fair chance, eh?”

“That’s what I keep hearing,” Sherlock sighed, standing and putting on his coat and scarf.  “Obviously I plan on giving her a ‘fair chance,’ as you put it, or I wouldn’t be going on the first date of my life with her.”

“Yeah, about that.”  John looked down and seemed suddenly uncomfortable.  He looked back up.  “Is there anything you’d like to know?”

“About what?”

“Just, you know.  Anything.  Talking to a woman.  Buying her a drink.  Sex.”

_Oh, not this…_

“Because if you have questions, it’s fine.  Really.  You’re my friend, I’m a doctor-”

“Thank you, John, but I think I can manage,” Sherlock said wryly.

“Sure?  I know you-”

Sherlock snapped his eyes to John’s.  “You know I what?”

John looked even more uncomfortable, but determined.  “I know you’ve never… done it.”

“Really?  How do you know?”

John gave him a look that clearly said _I am not that bloody stupid_ , and Sherlock sighed.

“Fine, thank you, Mycroft: he was right and you are right, no, I haven’t ever **done it** , nor do I plan to **do it** tonight.  But if I do find myself in the improbable position of needing advice about how to **do it,** I will certainly let you know.”

John raised his hands.  “Okay, just trying to help.  No need to be pissy about it.”

Sherlock sighed.  “I’m nervous, John,” he admitted.  “There’s a lot riding on this.”

“I know there must be,” John said, giving him the look again.  “Just try to…”

“Not be myself?”

“No, try to be open about it.  Love is an amazing thing, Sherlock, if you give it a chance.”

Sherlock almost muttered something about the nonsense of sentimental distractions like love but stopped himself.  “Thank you, John,” he said instead.

“I want it to work out.  Really.  I think Molly could be good for you.” John clapped him on the shoulder.  “I hope you have a great time.”

Sherlock nodded.  “And I hope your evening is…”

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“Not a complete waste of time,” Sherlock finished with a slight smile.

“That’s the Sherlock I know and want to punch,” John laughed.

They left the flat together and stood outside waiting for their taxis.  Amazingly there was no rain again that night, and it was actually pleasant out.  A taxi pulled up and Sherlock waved John towards it.  “This one’s yours.”

“How do you know?  Why does it matter?” John asked, curious.

“Because I ordered mine to time my arrival at Molly’s at precisely seven o’clock, and this one would have me there at six fifty-four.”

John shook his head.  “Date or no date, you’re still amazing.”  He nodded.  “I’ll be off, then.”

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.  Say hi to Molly for me.”

“Certainly.”

As Sherlock watched him go, he thought about how to get John’s help the next day.  But only for a few minutes.  Then his own taxi arrived and he got in, feeling like he was taking another step towards yet another Final Problem.  But what the solution was, at that moment, he couldn’t say.


	9. Getting to Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly go on their first date and have dinner.

On his way to Molly’s, Sherlock listened to two Duran Duran songs, two Madonna songs, a Kajagoogoo song and a song by the Thompson Twins (very odd band: none of them were twins).  Eighties music for the most part seemed like any other decade of pop music: dull with occasional interesting bursts.  He wondered why Molly liked it so much.  Fond childhood associations, perhaps?  Did it make her happy when she listened to Madonna singing about being a “Material Girl” or Kajagoogoo lamenting about being “Too Shy?”  He supposed for ordinary people there was a certain appeal to filling one’s head with mindless fluff, putting the brain on pause and just experiencing the joy of music.

He was actually that way somewhat: about classical music and some other compositions, though.  One of which was the song Molly had sang.  The lyrics were not important.  What had been important had been the passion and power behind the music, the way the keyboard had become an extension of her until it was impossible to separate the musician from the music.  It was this quality he shared with Molly: and this trait he hadn’t known she possessed had evoked his genuine, impassioned response.

He frowned.  Naturally, the sensible thing would be to not have her ever sing or play for him again.  Except that he didn’t want that.  And if he didn’t let her, he’d likely get an order from Moriarty to ask her to do it again.  He’d say music was good for the soul or some such remark, in that little happy voice he’d been using far too often since this all started.  No, he’d rather ask her himself than be ordered to, thank you very much.  Too much else of his life wasn’t under his control as it was.  Beyond his control.  Beyond his control…

A line Valmont had used in _Dangerous Liaisons_.  Moriarty had slipped this… this rubbish into his head right under his nose.  And he couldn’t delete it: not yet.  Not until this was over.  And it was festering, spreading through his mind like poison ivy.  Almost before Sherlock knew what he’d done he felt his hands clenched into fists.

The most recent addition to his romance movie mental library had been the film from earlier today.  Girl makes a bet, boy makes a bet, girl tries to drive boy away, boy takes everything girl  throws at him and comes back for more.  Girl and boy learn about their mutual duplicity, get angry, realize they are in love and get back to happily ever after.  THE END.

He was getting better at taking away from each movie what Moriarty wanted him to learn.  Moral of this one? He had to put up with whatever annoying woman things Molly did.  He could handle seeing a box of feminine products-that was simply a matter of biological necessity-but… sweet mother of all that was good, would he have to share a bed with **stuffed animals**?

The taxi pulled up to Molly’s, and Sherlock told the driver to wait.  He took a deep breath.  Well.  Just because he was a hostage to romance didn’t mean he was walking to her door like a chastised dog.  Head high, back straight, he walked towards Molly’s door, the arrogant and absurd thought striking him as he did that she’d rubbed a genie lamp and now only had two wishes left.

Molly heard the doorbell and her heart stopped.

It was him.  This was it.  A date with Sherlock. 

She didn’t want the phrase _a dream come true_ to cross her mind, but she couldn’t stop it.  How could she not think it, when she’d spent the past two years wanting him?  The thing she’d never, ever thought could happen.  Yet here it was.  Here he was.

She took a last hasty look at herself in the mirror.  Dark green short-sleeved silk top with an empire waist and straight sleeves.  It flowed over her body softly with the slightest hint of cling.  Sexy but not slutty.  Black skirt that flowed as well and stopped right above her knees.  She’d chosen ballet flats over heels: the last thing she wanted was to trip and fall.  Minimal make-up: a brush of hunter green eye shadow, a bit of mascara, some light pink lipstick because she’d read if you had a small mouth you should wear light colored lipstick.  The slightest touch of perfume: a blend of orchid, night jasmine and sandalwood.   Her hair hung loose and flowed in a shimmering curtain around her shoulders.

She thought she looked nice and hoped he did too.  But who knew what that maddening man would think, really.  Well, she’d given it her best shot.

The doorbell rang again, and she scrambled to the door, then forced herself to be calm as she opened it.

Oh, God.  He was… gorgeous.  Absolutely amazingly gorgeous.  Why had he asked her out again?  He needed to be out with a model, some woman who looked airbrushed when she wasn’t, not her…

No!  She ordered herself.  She would not put herself down like that.  He knew perfectly well what she looked like at her near worst, and he’d asked her out.  None of that.

He smiled, and she smiled back.  “Hi, you,” she said.

_New blouse.  Skirt not new but has been in the back of her closet for months.  New shampoo and conditioner, perfume that she rarely wears, pleasant but not overwhelming which speaks of her knowledge that I prefer natural and soft scents.  New shade of lipstick, makes her mouth look bigger.  Green shadow meant to contrast and compliment her brown eyes. Minimal make-up meant to enhance but not really alter her features.  Flats chosen over heels for safety, so it was more important to her not to look foolish in front of me than it was for her to look sexy. Doesn’t feel the need to look like someone she isn’t anymore as she did at Christmas. Suggests level of comfort combined with a desire to still encourage appreciation. Final assessment: appearance attractive without being overdone._

He approved.  Now he had to translate all that into a way she’d understand and appreciate.

“You look lovely,” he told her.

She blushed a bit and smiled again.  “Thank you.”

He moved inside to help her with her coat.  “The driver’s waiting.  I hope you’re hungry?”

She nodded.  “I am.  I figured we’d be having dinner.”

“Oh?”

“Seven o’clock is dinner time.  And you said a proper date.  A proper first date involves dinner.”

“Well done, you.  Shall we?” he asked, offering her his arm.

She took it with a grin.  “We shall.”

They talked a bit during the ride to the restaurant:  things of little consequence.  Her eminent return to work, his thoughts on the case, the fact that John had a date that night as well.  Molly seemed quite pleased for John, which Sherlock at first thought was odd: it wasn’t as though **her** happiness depended on John’s date.  Then he remembered this was part of friendship: when you cared about someone, you wanted them to be happy.  And while he had no use for such things, they did make John happy, so by extension he supposed he wanted their date to go well, too.  Even if he thought it was all a mistake and a lot of rubbish.

John had wanted his date with Molly to go well, too.  And Sherlock had a feeling that it wasn’t just because he knew something was wrong. Sherlock almost sighed. He didn’t have the luxury of choosing.  His date with Molly had to go well. Or else.

For a fleeting second he considered telling her something was wrong, indirectly as he had John, but dismissed the idea as too dangerous.  Molly was capable of keeping secrets and fooling people, but it had been a big strain on her to help fake his death, and he wasn’t sure how well she’d do if she was the cause of all this. Not cause as in she was to blame: cause as in Moriarty was the originator working through her. And if Moriarty knew something was amiss… there was no telling the exact consequences.

And… he didn’t want to hurt her. 

He blinked.  That was… well, not **entirely** unlike him, but damn near.  He knew that once he’d stopped Moriarty this would be a horrible mess, that Molly would be, as Lestrade and John had basically said, devastated.  He didn’t know if their friendship would survive it, actually.  But right here, right now, looking at her, how completely and utterly happy she was just to be beside him, remembering all the times he’d been unkind, taken advantage of her attraction to him, how he had drawn her into a complex scheme to save his life and asked her to watch John cry while she knew he was alive…

He just… couldn’t.

And he was sorry.  Genuinely sorry.  Just for a moment.  Looking at her, for just one moment he wished that he **could** fall in love with her, give her what she wanted, make her happy and let her make him happy in return.  Not ordinary, exactly, but, well… their own version of happiness.  Working side by side in the lab, discussing autopsy results and murder motives over coffee in Bart’s canteen, her no longer stuttering and blurting the wrong thing at the wrong time, their fingers brushing when they both reached for the same Petri dish…

“Sherlock?”

He jerked startled eyes to Molly’s face, shocked at the turn his thoughts had taken.  For that moment, that one moment, his thoughts about Molly had been his own and he’d thought about what?

No.  This was Moriarty’s fault.  Those damn movies, this entire insidious plot… he’d never had thoughts like this before.  Moriarty knew his mind, knew how it worked, and the vines were creeping a little closer to squeezing him.  That was all.

“Sorry,” he said, managing a weak smile.

“Are you OK?”

“Yes, fine.”

“If you… have you…” Molly trailed off.

“Have I what?”

“Changed your mind.”

He frowned.  “What?  About this?  No.  Why on earth would you think that?”

“You... for a minute you looked… sad.  Lost.”

“Lost,” he echoed.

“Yeah.  Like you didn’t know why you were here or what to do.”

She was staring at him with that probing, concerned look she’d had that day at Bart’s. _“Are you OK?  And don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.”_

He drew a deep breath.  “I… Molly… I’ve never done this before.”

Her eyes widened.  “What, you’ve never…”

“No,” he said softly, flatly.

“Oh.”  She seemed to consider that for a few seconds.  Then her face lit up and she smiled.

“So… I’m your first proper date.  Any date.”

“Yes.”

She looked as though she was about to burst with joy.  Easy to understand.  It implied unmatched significance and importance.  She’d read any awkwardness that ensued that night as him being nervous.  It had been the perfect thing to say.  And it happened to be the truth.

He didn’t expect her to lean over and kiss his cheek.   “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just… for giving this a chance.  For being you,” she said with a smile.

The sincerity and happiness in her eyes made him feel tainted and ill.

That was when he knew, no matter what happened, he was going to make a sincere, honest attempt to give her a perfect night.  Something that, when it was all over, he could swear on his life had been genuine.  He couldn’t give her much.  But this one thing, this one small miracle he would do for Molly Hooper.  Because she deserved it.

He returned her smile, finding it didn’t hurt quite so much now that he’d made this decision.  “Thank **you** , Molly,” he said softly.

She titled her head a bit.  “For what?”

He shook his head slightly, still smiling.  “For being you.”

Molly gave a small excited squeak when they stopped in front of the restaurant.  “Oh!  I’ve always wanted to eat here!” she said happily. She looked at him.  “How did you know?”

 _A little madman told me._   “I didn’t.  I thought you’d like it based on the name,” Sherlock said.  “Contrary to popular opinion, I do not know **everything**.”

She looked down shyly.  “You do know **me** rather well in some ways.”

He shoved down the urge to tell her it was easy to guess she’d like something so cute.  Cute. But she was a pathologist.  She did autopsies.  How had it never struck him before that this was actually an odd combination?  He’d ask her about it later.

He helped her out of the taxi and escorted her to the door, opening it for her with a smile.  A perfect gentleman.

He didn’t hear the soft click of a camera in the distance behind them.

Princess of Shoreditch was a nice place, as Moriarty had said.  Sleek, dark wood, textured paint in a modern design, tables and chairs arranged in ways he imagined others would call cozy.  The Maitre d’ smiled as he led them to a table in the back at Sherlock’s request.  Molly knew he didn’t care for people in general, so it didn’t bother her in the least.  She wasn’t too keen on eating in a crowd, either.

Once they’d been greeted by their waiter, Sherlock flipped a wine menu open with a flourish.  He scanned the list for all of three seconds before snapping it shut.  “We’ll have a bottle of your 2008 Inniskillin Riesling Icewine, please,” he told their waiter.

“Excellent choice, sir.” The man poured water for them and left.

Molly swallowed hard, looking down at her own wine menu.  He had just ordered them a bottle of wine that cost seventy pounds.  She felt his eyes on her and hastily closed her wine menu and picked up the dinner menu.

“That is an acceptable choice, yes?” he asked, and she looked up to meet his eyes.

“Oh, I love Riesling.  Just um… a bit expensive, that one,” she said with a slight nervous laugh.

He raised his eyebrows.  “And?”

She shook her head.  “Nothing.  It sounds delicious, thank you.”

“You aren’t used to being treated well, are you,” he said quietly.  It wasn’t a question.

Molly felt her cheeks burn and wished she could hide under the table.  “I haven’t exactly had dozens of suitors,” she said, equally quietly.  “Most of the ones I’ve had were during my uni days. And uni students don’t usually have a lot of money.  Well, the rich ones do.  But I never wanted to date any of those.  Then you’re only something pretty they wear on their arm, like a Rolex, and they’ll throw you aside as soon as a younger girl with bigger breasts comes along.”

He blinked: whether from surprise at her frankness or the information itself she wasn’t sure.

“Money is still no excuse not to treat you properly, Molly,” he said gently.

“Oh, there were some that did.  One in particular but, well, obviously it didn’t work out,” she said, cursing herself for being so stupidly stereotypical as to bring up past relationships.  “Sorry,” she said quickly.  “I know I just sounded like the type of woman you detest, talking about an ex.  I just… I feel like I can talk to you because you’re my friend.”

He was staring at her with that look again: the look of trying to figure something out that had surprised him.  “You weren’t chattering incessantly about it, Molly.  Don’t underestimate me, please, even though I’ve given you every reason to.  And I’m glad you’re comfortable with me.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go **that** far,” she said, then clapped her hand to her mouth in horror.

Sherlock stared at her and burst into laughter.

“Oh, God, sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said when he stopped laughing.  “You’re being honest.  I’d rather have you honest than picking your way through some imaginary minefield.”

Molly could only nod her head in wonder.  “All right.  I’ll carry on making a fool out of myself.”

He smiled.  “Please don’t take it **that** far, Molly,” he said wryly, and then it was her turn to laugh.

The wine arrived, and after the obligatory cork sniffing and the glasses were filled, Sherlock declined a starter (after consulting with Molly) waited for the waiter to depart and then raised his glass.  “To being us,” he said softly.

She smiled and clinked her glass to his.  “To being us.”

The Riesling was fantastic, cold and sweet with hints of vanilla and apricot.  It slid down her tongue like a liquid caress.  She looked down at her menu again and he did the same.  For about five seconds this time.  Then he closed his and looked at her.  “Well.  Have you decided?”

“Um, not yet.  It all looks so good.”

Privately Sherlock thought only about four things looked remotely good, but didn’t voice the opinion.  He wasn’t much on eating, eating was boring and food slowed him down when he worked, so it wasn’t really the restaurant’s fault. 

The waiter returned a moment later and smiled.  “Are you ready to order?”

Sherlock looked at Molly, who quickly made a decision.  “Yes, I’d like the roast Devon lamb, please.”

“And you, sir?”

“The same, please.”

The waiter nodded and collected their menus.  Sherlock looked at Molly in surprise.  “I didn’t know you like lamb, Molly.”

She looked surprised too.  “Why would you have done?  We’ve never actually eaten together.”

He glanced down.  “True.  But that’s what dates are about, right?  Learning things?”

He looked up to see her smiling.  “Yes.”

“Will you finish your story?  About the man from uni?”

Molly stared.  “Why?”

He shrugged.  “It might help me not make the same mistakes?”

She smiled again.  It confused him.  “What?”

“That was… that was very nice, Sherlock.”

Oh.  Sentiment.  Well, dates were all about that, too.  He smiled. So much smiling required, on a date…

Molly drew a deep breath.  “Douglas and I were both studying medicine.   He wanted to become a doctor, open a family practice.  We dated for a year and he asked me to marry him.  I said yes.  Not long after, I started noticing things.  Things that-well, if I were you, I’d have probably seen in about two minutes.  But love is blind and I loved him.”

“He’d made jokes about a family before: how I wouldn’t have to work, what a great stay-at-home mum I’d be.  I’d sort of brushed it off. But it got more serious once we were engaged. Eventually we had a big row about it and he told me he was old-fashioned: he wanted me to stay home and raise a family while he worked.   That wasn’t what I wanted for myself.  I’d worked too long and too hard in uni to just give it all up.  So I broke it off with him.”

Sherlock studied her curiously.  “You don’t want children?”

“I don’t dislike kids: I just don’t want any of my own.  When I was younger I thought maybe, but…” she glanced away. 

She was shocked when he laid a gentle hand on her arm for a second before removing it.  “There’s nothing wrong with you for not wanting children,” Sherlock told Molly.

She managed a laugh.  “Tell that to my mum!”

“I shall,” he deadpanned, and she laughed harder.

“You know, this is amazing,” she said when she’d stopped laughing.

“What is?”

“I just realized…I’m having fun with you.”

He raised his eyebrows.  “…Thank you?”

“No, I just mean… I didn’t know you could be so much fun.  Brilliant, yes and you have a… presence about you.  The kind that makes everyone want to stop and look at you for a moment.  But you’re funny, too.  Most people don’t get to see that.  And they’re missing out.”

A look crossed his face that she couldn’t understand.  “Thank you, Molly,” he said, and she must have imagined his voice was a shade rougher than normal.

Her cheeks flushed a bit, and she fought the urge to look down.  His expression changed from the odd one to one that looked almost… happy. 

Molly didn’t know why.  But Sherlock did.

Because of one small but significant thing.

Molly Hooper had not stammered.

Sherlock sat in a bathroom stall on a closed toilet lid, arms and legs crossed.  It was a bit uncomfortable but he needed some semblance of privacy and quiet to think.

Once he’d decided to put everything he genuinely could into having a decent time with Molly, something very strange had happened.  He was having a decent time with her.

She was no Irene Adler.  But she also was no Sally Donovan.  No, if he had to compare her to anyone else he’d willingly talk to for any length of time it would be…

John.

Sherlock blinked.  Where had that come from?

Analysis.

John was his friend.  John was fiercely loyal and devoted to him no matter what.  He’d risk his career and even his life for him.  So would Molly.

John reminded him that he was actually a human being and would he mind awfully to make some pitiful attempt to act like one when it was needed.  In her own way, so did Molly.

John was kind, patient and forgiving.  So was Molly.

Conclusion: John and Molly shared a number of core personality characteristics.

Secondary analysis: perhaps Molly should be dating John? No.  She loved **him**.  John loved him too, just not in a… fuzzy lumpkin way.  Sherlock smiled ruefully at how that damnable phrase was going to be forever stuck in his hard drive.  John loved him because…well… he was his best friend.  Because despite his usual demeanor, John saw the good in him.  He admired him, needed and cared about him as Sherlock needed and cared about John.

Extension of secondary analysis: did Molly need him too, then? Did she love him for those same things?  He did care for her already. Could he, by extension, come to need and care more about Molly?

Final conclusion: answer unknown.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes.  This was going way beyond being a slippery slope.  It was turning into an emotional avalanche.

He’d asked her some typical questions over dinner: why did she become a pathologist, how had she ended up at Bart’s.  It turned out that cheerful Molly enjoyed deducing in her own right.  Nowhere near his level of skill, of course, but she liked solving the mysteries of the dead.  The science of it.  Having questions and getting answers.  Something that Sherlock understood all too well.

It was quiet, peaceful work, in a macabre sort of way, Molly had explained.  She didn’t have to deal with the living much.  She had a few friends and her cat, and that seemed to be enough for her.  Well.  Except for the elephant that had always sat between them that neither of them talked about.  She didn’t realize it, but her answers had told him something else.  Something she had not.  Something, somewhere, had hurt Molly Hooper very deeply. 

Perhaps the death of her father: seeing him pretending to be cheerful while waiting for his last breath.  Things like that left their mark, consciously or otherwise. 

He’d ask her about that another time.  Tonight he only wanted her to be happy: to have this night as a memory to cherish and not despise once all this was over.  Romantic relationships furthered friendships as a matter of course.  Even though the romance wasn’t real, maybe their friendship would be strong enough to survive what was to come.  Maybe her forgiveness-her love-would be strong enough for her to absolve him.  Even though none of it was technically his fault, he knew emotions didn’t work that way.

He realized with a start that he’d been in there long enough.  He washed his hands and went back to their table.  As he approached he saw her looking at her mobile and frowning.  Then she put it back in her purse.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, fine,” she said, smiling at him.  He scanned her.  No, she was being honest.  But she had frowned at her phone.  He shrugged it off.  If she wanted him to know, she’d tell him.

She had finished her third glass of wine and was leaning back with sigh.  “That was excellent.  Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

The waiter arrived with the bill, and Sherlock scanned it for two seconds then handed the man his card.  “Well.  Are you ready for part two?”

“And part two is…let me guess.  Another surprise.”

He smiled.  “Yes, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’m having a fantastic time.  I’m sure I will.”

“Did you happen to bring a spacesuit?” he asked impulsively.

She looked confused.  “Spacesuit?”

“Yes.  You know.  In case we’re going to the moon.”

Molly giggled.  He really was so amazingly funny when he wasn’t being an ass.

“Too late,” she said.  “I’m over the moon.”

Sherlock groaned. 

“Too much?” she asked with a smile.

“I need some butter to go with my corn,” he said.  But he smiled back.

The waiter returned with his card and receipt.  Sherlock signed off, tucked his copy into his pocket and rose to help Molly with her coat.

Molly felt a little tipsy as she stood, so she grasped at the table.

Except that she clutched the tablecloth and not the table, started to slide, and as she caught her balance jerked it halfway off, sending dishes, glasses and cutlery crashing to the floor.

The entire restaurant stopped.  And stared.  And applauded.

Molly wanted to hide and never come out.  Oh, why couldn’t she go just once without doing something stupid!

She sighed and looked at Sherlock, waiting to see an irritated expression on his face.  “Oh, God, sorry, I can, um…” her voice trailed off as their waiter came rushing over, assuring her it was fine as he started cleaning everything up.

Sherlock, she discovered, wasn’t looking irritated.  He was trying not to laugh and failing.

Seeing his reaction, Molly shrugged and smiled, her wine buzz making her relaxed and bold.  “You do like dramatic exits,” she said, and she started laughing too.

Sherlock took his wallet out again and handed the waiter some cash.  “That should cover it nicely, I think.”  He carefully moved to stand behind Molly and, with a dignity that made her love him more, helped her into her coat. He shrugged his on and held out a hand to her.  “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

She drew a startled breath, but slowly took his hand, feeling his cool fingers twine with her warm ones.  He gave a little bow to the dining room, and she did a quick curtsey, and they headed for the door, Molly giggling as they went.

As they stood outside waiting for a taxi, still holding hands, Molly looked up at him.  “Sherlock?”

“Yes, Molly?”

“You didn’t get upset,” she said.  “I was sure you’d get irritated, or tell me not to be so clumsy…”

Sherlock sighed, reaching out his other hand to brush her hair back from her face, a simple action that made Molly think she would explode.  Then he gave her an affectionate smile.

“Molly, you have not stammered once since I picked you up tonight,” he said.  “Get angry over some dishes, when we’re making such progress?” He chuckled.  “With you, I know how to pick my battles.”


	10. All the Things That I've Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date continues, with ups, downs, and revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!

Club Aquarium looked busy but not packed, lively but not overwhelming. Probably because it wasn't a weekend. He observed Molly carefully as they approached it, uncertain if she had ever been to a club or if she even liked them.

"Dancing," she whispered so softly he almost didn't hear her. Then she turned to face him, glowing with excitement. "I've not been dancing in ages! I mean... if you wouldn't mind to," she said quickly, wondering if she was about to get "the look." The one that spoke without words. The one that in this instance would say  _I'm Sherlock Holmes and I don't dance._

"Well I didn't bring you here to play Scrabble," he replied with a smirk. It was getting easier, he noticed. Easier not to snap out the derisive retorts: to use his wit in a kinder, gentler way with her.

She grinned. "Do you like Scrabble?"

He shrugged. "I'm not one for board games, though that one is tolerable if played with someone whose I.Q. is greater than a bread basket."

"So no playing with Anderson, you mean," Molly offered, and was ecstatic when he gave a rich, warm chuckle.

"Sometimes you catch on fast, Molly Hooper," he said. He paid their cover charge and led her in.

It wasn't until they stood off from the door surveying their surroundings that he realized that he'd taken her hand. He stared at their twined fingers in shock. How had he done this without even realizing it? He'd only had one glass of wine and two nicotine patches!

Molly craned her neck, stood on tiptoe and looked towards the back. "I see a good table open near the back," she told him, and he nodded and led the way, holding her hand still because he knew he couldn't simply drop it at this point. Her hand was warm and soft and not entirely unpleasant against his. Most interesting was that she wasn't nervous or making a big deal out of their holding hands. She had responded to him naturally and instinctively.

The same way he'd taken her hand to begin with.

Sherlock suddenly found himself wishing that he had something else to occupy his thoughts. Something other than what he'd done or how she felt. Something that didn't set bells off in his head.

Once they got to the table he got her settled in her seat and said: "Would you like a drink?"

"Ah, Tom Collins, please."

He nodded and headed for the bar. Molly watched him as he walked; admiring the dashing and elegant figure he cut. You could put her in a dark room with a thousand men, and she'd still know which one was him. Or that's how she felt, at least.

She took a deep breath, the three glasses of wine still lingering in her system. She was having an absolutely amazing time with him. It went beyond anything she ever could have hoped it could be. Even thought she hadn't stammered, she'd still said some things that made her cringe as soon as they'd left her mouth. But he had only reacted with amusement and a bit of sarcasm. It was like, well, a proper date. With someone other than Sherlock Holmes.

But it was him. It was a bit confusing and strange. But she didn't want to think about it. She just wanted to enjoy being with him and show him more of the woman that had made him finally ask her out. A woman that couldn't match his intellect but was smart enough to fit well with it: who would stand by his side no matter what. Who could stir his laughter and his passion for music in equal measure. Who would love him completely and unconditionally for the rest of their lives.

Molly knew she could be that woman. And she intended to do everything in her power to show him.

While he waited for their drinks, Sherlock split his brain into two halves. One half analyzed some nearby people and deduced everything he could about them. The other half thought about Molly. And Moriarty. And himself.

Moriarty obviously wasn't going to stop until he thought Sherlock was in love. Sherlock knew it was not possible for him to fall in love. It couldn't be. How could he let it be?

So he'd need to let a reasonable amount of time pass, then pretend he'd fallen in love with Molly.

But that meant more dates. And from what Moriarty had implied, sex.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was going to be forced by Psychopath Jim Moriarty to give his virginity to Doctor Molly Hooper.

The thought made him want to retch. Not because of Molly. Knowing he would be forced, that all this was being forced… that was what was making him feel ill.

He didn't like feeling ill. He didn't like feeling anything at all, usually. But it was there, lurking like a bogeyman in the closet. Joy, doubt, pain: they had all visited him of late. Faking his death, being isolated from everyone he cared about but Molly…

There it was again. Caring about Molly.

He sighed. There was no use pretending otherwise. He did care about Molly. They were friends. Wasn't that part of the reason he hadn't tried to tell her anything?

Sherlock was walking a tightrope, and he wasn't entirely certain he wouldn't fall.

He stopped himself: stopped that part of his brain. Tonight wasn't about his brilliant deductions or razor-sharp reasoning. It was about Molly. Molly was what counted.

 _She's what counts in this relationship_ , Moriarty had told him.

He wanted to punch the man in the face. Repeatedly.

How the hell had Moriarty known him before he knew himself?

Oh, right. They were the same.

Sherlock frowned. If they were the same, did that mean…

"Here you go, sir," the bartender said cheerfully, handing him two Tom Collins'.

"Thank you," Sherlock managed to say. "Keep a tab for me."

"Yes, sir."

He shook his head. Back to Molly and their perfect date.

She smiled and thanked him when he handed her the drink. He noticed her studying his glass and realizing he'd ordered the same thing.

"Seemed easier," he said with a shrug.

At that moment two girls came up to Sherlock. "Excuse me," one said, "aren't you…"

Sherlock flicked his eyes over them.

_Uni students. Design major, computer major. The computer major is on her third drink: the design major on her fifth which is why she's doing the talking. Wealthy families, attractive, used to getting attention. Smokers, ecstasy users. Party girls who think being seen with me would be something to brag about. Two steps away from failing out of uni. Their combined brains wouldn't equal a quarter of Molly's. Final conclusion: repellant._

"Aren't I whom? Leonardo DiCaprio? The King of Scotland?" Sherlock asked derisively.

The blonde girl, the one who'd spoken, blinked. "Sherlock Holmes…"

"Ah, good. You're capable of stating the obvious, after all." He leaned back and folded his hands in his lap, and Molly winced, knowing what was coming.

The girl blinked stupidly at him again, then decided it must be time to use her natural assets. She smiled. "We're huge fans of yours. You're just so…"

"Boffin!" the other girl, a brunette, piped up.

"Yes, I imagine you'd think that. So. Ladies. What can I do for you?" Sherlock asked sweetly, smiling. Too sweetly, Molly knew. She was caught between finding it funny and feeling sorry for the girls. She knew what it was like to be on the other end of the sound and the fury that was Sherlock Holmes.

"We wanted to see if we could do some deducing and you tell us how good we do," the blonde said.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked in a soft, dangerous voice.

"Sherlock," Molly said anxiously.

"No, no, it's fascinating," Sherlock said, smiling again, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. "Think you're clever, do you? Think you can figure things out? Well, let me do a bit of deducing for  **you**  first."

"Sherlock!" Molly said. But she knew there was no stopping him at this point. And she was right.

He stood up, towering over the two, who stared up at him with wide eyes and slack jaws.

"I see two girls who're used to getting all the attention from the boys. Who think batting their eyelashes and giggling will get them whatever they want. Who want to show off that they're pretty  **and**  clever, and wouldn't it be great to be able to brag to all their other little girlfriends how they were praised by Sherlock Holmes. I see girls who are eager, hungry, superficial snippets, who don't have enough functioning brain cells in their combined heads to realize any of this. But if you want to do some deducing, why don't you start with the obvious, which is that I am on a date and want to be left alone?"

The girls' eyes widened even more and they looked as though they wanted to burst into angry, hurt tears

"No?" he asked mildly. "Off you go, then. Charmed,  **really**."

"You right bastard!" the brunette exclaimed. "Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes!"

"You shouldn't offer. We've only just met," he said coolly.

After a final angry stare the two stormed off. Sherlock sighed. "Go ahead," he said to Molly as he sat down, not quite looking at her.

Molly sighed as well. "Sherlock, was that really necessary? They're harmless drunk girls with a crush on you."

"I don't suffer fools gladly, Molly. You know that. I can't just turn it on and off like a tap."

"I know." She looked down. "It just… I know you call it like you see it. It's just hurtful to people."

He looked at her now. "Truth is not always kind, Molly," he said softly.

"Yes," she said sadly. "I remember."

The look on her face told Sherlock she was remembering her own history with him.  _"Your mouth's too small now…obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…"_

_Damn._

He sighed again. "I am awful at times, aren't I."

She nodded. "But you're also capable of saying nice truths. Why don't you do more of that?"

"Because most people don't present anything nice to comment on, and I don't care about what they think."

She glanced down. "I've disappointed you," Sherlock said.

She shook her head. "Not exactly. You are who you are, Sherlock. If I can't accept that, I've got no business being with you."

He blinked in alarm. This sounded potentially dangerous. " **Can**  you accept it?" he asked carefully, quietly.

She looked up, surprised. "Of course I can. I did a long time ago. But that doesn't mean it doesn't bother me."

He took a deep breath. This was one step away from ruining their date. He had to say the right thing, fast.

He took her hand and looked into her eyes. "Molly… I don't know if I'll ever be a better man. But you make me want to try to be."

She blinked a few times and smiled. "Thank you," she said softly.

"Will you forgive my behavior? I promise to not make any other girls run off to cry tonight," he said, and she laughed.

"I always forgive you, Sherlock," she said, smiling again. "Crazy of me, but I do."

"Then I'm even more fortunate to have you," he said softly, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it.

He felt her pulse rev up like a Ferrari engine, saw her pupils dilate. She drew an unsteady breath.

_Highly aroused. Just from this. Remarkable._

He lowered her hand slowly, never taking his eyes off hers. Then he gave her the most dazzling smile he had. "Well. Now that I've gotten being an ass out of my system, could we please go back to having a good time together?"

She nodded, returning his smile. He leaned back again, this time relaxed, content to watch her sip her drink and lose herself in the music.

Molly could tell he was watching her. There was no way not to. His eyes cut harder than diamonds when he was studying someone. Maybe it was the booze, or maybe she was just getting used to his stare, but she wasn't bothered. Let him study her. He probably already knew everything. He wanted her to be herself: she wouldn't disappoint him.

Sherlock knew Molly knew he was analyzing her. But she didn't seem bothered. Possibly the alcohol, or maybe she was used to being picked apart by him now. Either way, it was… odd, having her just be herself under his scrutiny. But pleasant. Almost as though she was surrendering to him: to how he was.

He growled inside. Surrendering to him. What bloody romantic rubbish was that?

He was about to curse Moriarty for the hundredth time when the current song ended and a new one started.

Molly changed when she heard it begin.

Her entire body crackled with excitement, memory and longing.

This was it, then.

"Molly, would you like to dance?"

She looked at him, and he couldn't decipher all the emotions he saw. But she simply said: "yes, please," in a slightly shaky voice.

So he rose and took her hand and led her to the dance floor.

The song had a slow beat, so he pulled her close, arms around her waist, hers resting on his shoulders with her hands linking loosely behind his neck.

It was then that Sherlock got his next surprise.

Molly Hooper could dance.

She swayed against him perfectly, with no self-consciousness, molding her body to his as though it had always been there. She closed her eyes, apparently to focus on the music and the feel of him against her. Curious as to whether it would make a difference, he followed suit.

And discovered to his satisfaction and dismay that it did.

He sighed and pressed her closer, feeling a strange calm settle over him. It wasn't his fault, any of it. He was being forced. It was beyond his control. It would be better for everyone if he just let it happen. So he did.

That did not, however, stop him from paying attention to the lyrics. Words were clues, weapons, shields. He needed to hear them. So he listened.

 _Oh, you are the devil indeed,_ Sherlock thought towards Moriarty as he opened his eyes, even though the man couldn't hear his thoughts. It couldn't have been a more appropriate song if the fiend had written it himself. Had Moriarty known about this song? Had he arranged for it to play? Sherlock didn't know, but it was suspect. Well. In for a penny, out for a pound… he kept dancing and holding Molly close. Now it was a woman singing:

Molly opened her eyes and looked into his.

She smiled.

She seemed to be in another world. He could almost touch her happiness, taste her desire.

_Ain't nobody,_

_Loves me better._

_Makes me happy,_

_Makes me feel this way._

 

_Ain't nobody,_

_Loves me better…_

The music was still playing, but Sherlock was no longer listening to the words.

He knew everything he needed to for know.

Nothing mattered right now except for Molly moving and feeling and breathing in synch with him.

He would stop Moriarty. And his friendship with Molly would survive.

He couldn't explain how he knew it. But he did.

And for once… he was going to trust his instincts instead of his intellect.

Molly smiled at him as the song ended. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he replied. "Do you want to go back to our drinks for now?"

She nodded, and they returned to their table.  _For now_ , he'd said. That implied he'd dance with her more later. The thought made her ridiculously happy.

He moved his chair closer to hers so they could talk more easily. "How's your back? Healing up, I imagine?"

She nodded. "Yes, thanks. And well, as you can see, the bruises are fading…"

Sherlock stared at her. He'd noticed her face, of course. But it had just occurred to him that Molly hadn't used any makeup to lessen the look of the bruises on her face to go out. Most women probably would have. Why had she not?

"Molly, forgive me for asking, but-"

"You want to know why I didn't cover up my face," she finished for him. "The bruises."

"Yes."

She took a deep breath. "Because… covering it up would feel like a lie. Like I was trying to hide from it. If he could see me… he'd like that: he'd like knowing he'd made me ashamed or beat down. And I won't let him have that."

Sherlock stared at her the way he had the night he'd told her he needed her: face calm but with a haunted expression in his bright eyes.

She laughed slightly. "I guess that might sound stupid…"

"No," he said, his voice suddenly hard, angry, but not at her. "No. It doesn't."

Sherlock kept staring at her, as if he'd never fully seen her before. And maybe he had not. How did that Tori Amos song go? Molly thought. "Pieces of me you've never seen?"

She felt nervous now. Had she said too much? They were venturing into dangerous territory, discussing Moriarty. It definitely wasn't how she envisioned their first date to go. But if he needed her to listen…

Sherlock shook his head slightly as though to clear it, and smiled at her. "Well. Let's talk about him some other time, shall we? He's not exactly good conversation."

Molly laughed. He realized he liked making her laugh. He usually made people sneer or get angry. Not laugh.

"How about another drink?" he asked her, and she raised her eyebrows.

"Sherlock Holmes, are you attempting to get me drunk and take advantage of me?" she teased.

He raised his eyebrows in return. "Certainly not, Molly Hooper!"

"Oh," she said, half relieved and half disappointed. "Well, good," she added, trying to sort out her emotions.

He stood up and moved beside her, bending down to whisper in her ear.

"A gentleman doesn't take advantage of a lady. Nor does he seduce her on the first date. Other dates, however, can be a different matter entirely."

With that he brushed a hand across her cheek and went back to the bar, leaving a stunned, aroused Molly in his wake.

Molly watched him go. She shook her head slightly as though to clear it, because she couldn't possibly have heard him say what she thought he'd said.

Seduce her? Him? Her?

 _Breathe, Molly,_  she ordered herself.

As he stood there, she saw his head turn sharply and followed his gaze. He was looking at the two girls he'd been hateful to earlier. As she watched, he beckoned to the bartender and spoke to him for about a minute. The bartender nodded as Sherlock slipped him a note. The bartender rapidly made two drinks and summoned another employee, who carried them off to the girls.

Molly watched, confused and bemused, as the server approached the girls. She spoke to them for a bit. The girls looked at her, then towards Sherlock, then back. After a few seconds, they took the drinks and slowly raised their glasses to him.

Sherlock raised one in his own hand in return, then turned and joined Molly again, who was staring back and forth as though she was at a tennis match.

"What was that all about?" she asked as he put their drinks down and sat back in his chair.

"Oh, just making amends," he answered.

"How on earth did you manage it?"

He looked at her and grinned. "I had her tell them that they were indeed amazing at deducing. I  **am**  a right bastard."

Molly very nearly spit her drink all over him in her laughter.

They had moved from their table to one of the sofas. Not touching but sitting close together, sipping water, telling each other bits and pieces about their pasts, themselves. They had danced two more times. Once to "Is Your Love Strong Enough?" by Brian Ferry, and the other time to "Come On, Eileen" by a band with the peculiar name of Dexys Midnight Runners. Sherlock hadn't known a whit about either song and had gone and questioned the disc jockey. It was nearly midnight now, and Molly was showing signs of being sleepy.

He reached out and touched her hand briefly, smiling. "You look like you're ready to get some rest."

She nodded sheepishly. "I am. I'm sorry; I'm having the best time with you. I just haven't slept so good since… since it happened."

He nodded. "It's fine that you want sleep. Well, then. Shall we get you home before you lose your finery or turn into a pumpkin?"

She giggled. "Thank you, noble sir."

He rose and held out a hand to her. "My lady," he said with mock gravity, and Molly giggled again as she gave him her hand and he pulled her to her feet.

He'd already settled the tab, and after helping Molly into her coat he put his on. She seemed a bit unsteady, probably the combination of alcohol and weariness, and he took her hand again almost before realizing it.

And stared again. When had this happened? How? He'd never instinctively held anyone's hand in his life. OK, since he was a small boy, at least. Now he, Sherlock Holmes, was taking Molly Hooper's hand as if he'd done it all his life.

Blasted, bloody sentiment, romance and affection. Blasted, bloody Jim Moriarty.

He had honestly enjoyed the night. And while intellectually he knew he'd made a deliberate effort to, the extent of the enjoyment is what surprised him. It was bad. Ordinary people enjoyed dates. Not him, the world's only consulting detective. And yet he had.

Sherlock added this information to the already large mental file  _Will Think about This Later_  and started for the doors with Molly beside him, her fingers entwined with his oddly calming him from his inner turmoil.

Relaxed and content, they stepped outside into the cool London air.

And were immediately blinded by the flash of a camera going off three times right in front of them.

"Smile!" a familiar woman's voice called out in malicious cheerfulness as one more photo was snapped.

Sherlock lowered the arm he'd reflexively raised and opened his eyes to glare at the smirking figure standing before them. His lips pressed together tightly for a moment before he spoke.

"Kitty Riley. And here I thought I'd lost my number one fan ages ago."

Kitty lowered the camera and smiled again, more genuinely this time. "No chance of that, Sherlock Holmes. Not when you've gone and done something this interesting."

"Yes: apparently no one in London has anything better to do than stalk me while I am out for the evening. And by no one, I mean you."

"Goodness, what a snit you're in," Kitty said. "I figured you'd be happy: after all, it looks like you finally managed to get a date other than with your 'bachelor' roommate."

Her eyes darted to Molly. "How much did you pay this one?" Kitty asked Sherlock mockingly.

Sherlock started to make an angry remark, but Molly beat him to it. "He didn't pay me. He could get a date anytime. Unlike you."

Kitty raised her eyebrows. "Oh, got claws, does she, your little cat?"

"I do. Would you like to see my sharp pointy teeth as well?" Molly asked, pulling her hand free from Sherlock's and moving directly in front of the reporter.

"Molly," Sherlock said cautiously, watching them carefully.

"Molly, is it? Well, Molly, why don't you save me some bother and tell me who you are?" Kitty asked sweetly. "There's no need for us to get off on the wrong foot because of him."

"Oh, I rather think there is," Molly said softly, moving in slow circles around Kitty, who watched her apprehensively. "You see, you might not know who I am yet, but I know who you are. You're the reporter who printed a bunch of filthy lies about Sherlock: who told the world he was a fraud. You were so eager to get noticed that you would've sold out your own mother for a front page story. That's why you didn't want to hear anyone else's side until you didn't have a choice. And even now, after it's been proven that the man who kidnapped those kids wasn't Sherlock, that someone else did it all, you'd still love to be able to show him as a fake."

Molly moved back in front of her. Even though she was only an inch taller than the other women, somehow she towered over her. "Well, Miss Riley. Let me introduce myself. My name is Molly Kathleen Hooper. I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's. Two "O's" in Hooper, by the way, in case the only way you can spell anything properly is with a spellchecker. And you are very lucky that I believe in peace, bitch, or you could do a write-up about how I got arrested for assault for punching you in the face."

Kitty took a faltering step back, eyes locked on Molly. Molly seemed perfectly calm, except there was a hard glitter to her eyes that Sherlock recognized. He'd given Moriarty similar looks. Kitty Riley had seen the look before too: on John Watson's face after Sherlock Holmes had "died".

"Now get out of here before I get a new religion," Molly said, voice set, level but with an edge of steel.

Kitty backed up slowly, never taking her eyes off them. "You haven't seen the last of me, Sherlock Holmes and Molly HOOper," she sneered. "I'll be watching you two."

"Thanks for the warning. SO nice to have met you," Molly said with a sweet fake smile of her own. "By the way, have you ever wanted to see a post-mortem room? I could arrange a visit for you…"

Kitty turned and fled.

Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding and looked at Molly.

She sighed and held up a hand. "Don't, please. Don't lecture me about how I just stirred her up and gave her all sorts of ammunition and now we won't hear the end of it. It will happen anyway. There's things I'll put up with and things I won't, and she is on the 'won't' side of it. No one is allowed to talk like that about you in front of me." She looked him in the eye. "No one."

Sherlock had a sudden vivid flash of that Reichenbach night: of John saying it was against the law to chin the chief superintendent.

Like John, indeed.

Sherlock smiled. "Sharp pointy teeth indeed, Molly Kathleen Hooper."

She smiled shyly, looking down as though embarrassed. It was rather charming in a way. He'd never suspected Molly could be quite so fierce.

_What else don't I know about you, Molly Hooper?_

He moved to her side and fleetingly brushed his fingers down her cheek. "Well. Shall we go?"

She touched his hand briefly and smiled. "Let's."

He was strangely silent on the cab ride back: well, maybe not strangely. He could alternate between utter silence and nonstop manic talking in the blink of an eye. It was easy to tell he was deep in thought, so Molly left him to it, happy just to be with him.

"What's it for?" he asked her suddenly.

She blinked. "Sorry?"

"Kathleen. Your middle name. Who were you named after?"

"Oh," Molly said, glancing down briefly. "It's for Kathleen from  _Wuthering Heights_. My mum loved that book."

Sherlock frowned. "There is no Kathleen in  _Wuthering Heights_."

"Well... no. But... see, she heard the Kate Bush song "Wuthering Heights" and she loved it, but she misheard the lyrics. She thought she was singing "It's me, your Kathleen." It wasn't until she read the book that she realized her mistake, but she liked Kathleen so much she kept it."

He nodded slowly. It seemed to settle something in his mind, but Molly had no idea what.

He lapsed back into silence. After a time it became too much even for her, she who was normally fairly quiet herself. "Sherlock…"

His gaze jerked away from the window at once, settling on her face. "Yes?"

"Thank you for tonight," she said quietly. "I had a... fantastic time."

He nodded. "Fantastic," he repeated, as if he'd never heard the word before and was trying it out on his tongue to see if he liked it. It seemed he did, because he smiled. "I'm glad. I've enjoyed your company very much."

She smiled back, somewhat nervous at his almost casual demeanor. Had she crossed a line, telling him that? Was he just being polite?

The taxi pulled up in front of her flat. Sherlock got out and opened her door for her, then accompanied her to her front door. He was still silent. Molly got more apprehensive. Oh, God. Was he about to tell her it was a one-off? Had she bored him to death? Was he…

"Molly, I'd like to take you out again tomorrow night, if I may?"

Oooooo.

He was smiling.

A warm, open smile.

Her heart melted.

"I'd like that, Sherlock."

"Good. I know a lovely place for an evening picnic. Shall we say seven o'clock again?"

"That's fine."

"Good. Make sure you're hungry," he said, words that sounded innocent, but there was something in his eyes that was not.

It was suddenly hard to breathe. "I…I'll be hungry."

He smiled again, a fleeting smile that disappeared as he moved closer to her, a curious, almost childlike expression on his face. He cupped her face in his hands, studying her as though she was some sort of rare book he was about to open. Molly stared into his eyes, feeling her heart hammering desperately against her ribs like a beast demanding to be let loose from a cage.

He closed the miniscule amount of distance between them and slowly, carefully, kissed her.

Molly's world exploded.

He was kissing her. He, Sherlock Holmes, was kissing her.

_OhGodOhGodOhGod…_

It felt so unbelievably, amazingly GOOD.

She reached up and rested hands on his shoulders, trying to savor every detail about him: the soft coolness of his lips, the faint scent of cologne and taste of Tom Collins, the slightly scratchy warmth of his coat and the slender power of his shoulders.

It was over too soon: it could've gone on for hours and it wouldn't have been enough for her. He pulled back gently, eyes opening again to stare into hers. She smiled, and it suddenly seemed as if the entire world was contained in that simple joyful gesture.

He lowered his hands, took hers in them, and squeezed. "Good night, Molly."

"Good night, Sherlock."

He waited until she was inside and the door locked to return to the taxi, so many thoughts filling his brain he couldn't contain them all. He needed to go home and sort out every detail inch by inch.

He climbed in the back again and closed the door. Was it his imagination, or was there a slight clicking sound after he'd shut it?

"Take me to 221 Baker Street, please," he said, then studied the partition that separated him from the driver. Something was different.

"Certainly sir," the driver said cheerfully, slowly turning to look at him.

Sherlock jumped back into the seat, heart pounding like a jackhammer.

Jim Moriarty smiled. "Shall we take the scenic route?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ain't Nobody," by Rufus and Chaka Khan, 1983, Warner Bros Records


	11. The Killing Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Moriarty have a "little chat", Sherlock and John compare their respective nights, and Mycroft confronts Sherlock about Moriarty and Molly.

Moriarty slowly pulled away from Molly's flat.

Sherlock punched the partition with his fist. All that happened was that he got a very painful fist.

"Nope," Moriarty said simply, driving.

Sherlock tried the door handles. Neither worked.

"No, again," Moriarty said.

Sherlock pulled out his Browning.

"Are you sure you want to risk that, honey?"

Sherlock slowly lowered the gun. Moriarty smiled.

"Good. I really do prefer you behaving to my having to blow people up at this hour. So tedious. Makes it hard to relax. Speaking of relaxing, why don't you? If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."

"What  **do**  you want?" Sherlock asked flatly, holding the gun in his lap.

"Just a chat, that's all. Your date went  **splendidly** , by the way. Bravo."

"I didn't have much choice, did I?"

Moriarty chuckled. "Oh, Sherlock. You had all kinds of choices. You still do. It's just that we both know what you'll decide before you even make them. Tell me truthfully: was going out with Molly that much of a hardship?"

"The hardship is you playing this… sick, twisted cupid. You know you won't win."

"Oh, I disagree."

"You would, just for the sake of it."

"Wrong, Sherlock. I don't like to waste my time any more than you do."

"Then why are you doing this!" Sherlock shouted.

"I already told you."

"Yes, yes, so I can experience love," Sherlock said dismissively. "But why? Why is that so important to you?"

"Are you kidding me? You, the great detective who keeps most of his feelings locked up in some room in a mind palace? You really don't understand why I want you to fall in love?"

Sherlock went still. " _We're just alike, you and I."_

" **You**  have fallen in love before," he said softly. "And I haven't, and you can't stand me having that over you."

Moriarty said nothing for a moment. Then: "We have to stay on the same page, you and me."

"You fell in love, and you hated yourself for that," Sherlock continued relentlessly.

"I DIDN'T WANT TO!" Moriarty screamed suddenly, the car swerving a bit. His hands gripped the wheel tightly before he got control of himself. "Never. I never wanted to fall in love. A stupid, weak distraction. It shouldn't have been possible. But it was."

"You'll forgive me if I'm not sympathetic," Sherlock said coldly. "And how the hell did you ever fall in love? You don't love anyone but yourself."

"Even a demon can die, Sherlock. And even a demon can fall in love. Without light, there is no darkness. And I don't want your sympathy. I want it to happen to you. And it will."

"You are trying very hard to convince yourself of that."

"No. I don't need convincing. You do. For now. But that will change, Sherlock. You'll go from doubt to amazement to acceptance. Like the four stages of grief, in a way, isn't it?"

Sherlock sighed. "I am not going to fall in love."

"Oh, going into it kicking and screaming, aren't you. Don't blame you. I wouldn't want to accept it either, if I were you. But you will. It'll happen before you know it."

Sherlock glared at him. "What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because we're just alike, remember? I'm you and you're me. And if a demon can fall in love, so can an angel."

"I'm not an angel," Sherlock said in a hard, clipped voice.

"Close enough to one. And no matter how much you say otherwise, you know you can. Because I know your dirty little secret, Sherlock. I know why you keep it all locked up in the mind palace. And I soooo hate to burst your bubble, but daddy's got the key. Do you hear me knocking? Because I'm coming in." Sherlock glared again, and Moriarty smiled.

"Don't fight it, Sherlock. "It'll be easier for everyone if you just give in."

"There is nothing to fight," Sherlock said angrily. "There is a distinct absence of feelings for me to give in to."

"We both know that's not quite true."

Sherlock leaned back with another sigh.

"Well, enough chatting for now. Time to get you home! Oh, the picnic. Find a nice place to take her. Scare up some wine and chocolate. Women love that, you know. Then… oh, I dunno: cuddle and look up at the sky or something. And make out a bit, too. Get her worked up but not too much. It's not quite time yet to change your status."

"And after?" Sherlock asked calmly, ignoring the bait.

"Take her home, you git. This time go inside for tea. A bit more making out. She goes back to work the day after tomorrow and she's working morning shift. Tell her you'll stop by and see her. When you do, ask her on date number three for the next night."

There was a pause. "Which will be what?"

Moriarty shook his head. "Later, dearest. Now tomorrow day, you'd best start trying to find me. Or find some clues at least. Can't let your great romance go to your head too much!"

"No, we can't," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"That's all for now. We've got a bit of time left. I thought I'd play you a song. Another great tune for your soundtrack."

Sherlock sat bolt upright. "My soundtrack."

"Well, yours and Molly's, that is. Every good movie needs a good soundtrack, Sherlock. So shush up and listen."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, lips tightening. He opened his eyes and sat back again as the music started.

_The killing time, Unwillingly mine_

_Fate, up against your will,_  
_Through the thick and thin, he will wait until_  
_You give yourself to her_

By now they were in front of 221 Baker. Sherlock remained silent and motionless until the song ended. Then he asked quietly: "any other instructions?"

"Yes. Another movie. Watch  _Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist._ And a package will arrive for you in the morning. Don't worry: it will have instructions. Have a good night, **Romeo**."

The clicking sound returned. Sherlock got out of the taxi and slammed the door shut as hard as he could. It sped off and he watched it go with narrowed eyes and an uneasy mind.

John wasn't home yet, but Sherlock knew he would be before too much longer. John wasn't one to have sex on a first date. He was probably sitting in a flat with this Mary, finishing his tea and laughing at some silly story she was telling him.

He frowned as he removed his coat and scarf. Hadn't he just done something similar with Molly? Well that was different. He was a hostage to romance. John had no such excuse. He just wanted to find a nice woman, fall in love and get married.

Sherlock's eyes widened. Good grief, how long was Moriarty expecting him to keep up this ruse? Was this meant to culminate with Moriarty wanting to be best man at their wedding? No. Surely not. He'd eventually get bored of making Sherlock be with her. But if he was so sure Sherlock could, and would, fall for Molly, what was the outcome meant to be? That he'd have to confess it all to Moriarty, that he'd been right? Or was he going to be forced to tell Molly everything?

He sighed, curling up on the sofa. As with Moriarty's other games, he probably wouldn't know until it was almost too late. If only he knew how things had ended (other than probably badly) with whomever Moriarty had loved, it could offer him a clue. But Moriarty wouldn't give him anything else about that, he knew it.

For that instant tonight, Moriarty had seemed almost… human. Just an angry man who almost seemed to miss what he'd once felt. A scary thought, that.

Sherlock's thoughts moved back to Molly. He would be lying if he said the night hadn't frayed him somewhat. Having to put that much effort into acting reasonably normal for an evening had depleted him. Yet there had been moments when his words and actions had been effortless. It had been good to see a Molly who wasn't afraid to talk to him anymore: a Molly who was simply herself. In a world full of posturing, manipulation and ruthless ambition, Molly was the calm waters after the storm. And he'd also be lying if he said that had no appeal.

His mouth quirked up in a smile as he remembered the incident with Kitty Riley. Molly was certainly showing more of what she was made of. Apparently it was just her feelings for him that had made her nervous and stammer around him: the state of limbo she'd floated in with him for the better part of two years. Once he had declared intent and taken her out, the resulting shift had stopped her stammer. The hope that had sprung eternal had been filled.

Odd? Perhaps. But as he'd learned over the past six months, there was more to Molly than met the eye. He didn't mind having the knowledge as such: never knew when things could come in handy. No, it was the method by which he'd acquired it that he loathed. But loathing wasn't going to stop Moriarty. He was.

He was in the middle of making plans for his investigation the next day and his upcoming date with Molly when he heard John walking to the door.

"It's open," he called.

John came in, rubbing at his arms absentmindedly as he closed and locked the door. "Gah. Got a bit chilly at the end. Glad we didn't have too much walking to do."

"Mmm," Sherlock said, fingers steepled on his chest.

John sat in a chair across from the sofa. "Well. You obviously survived your first date," he commented with a smile.

Sherlock glanced at him briefly. "You really like this one. This Mary."

"You remembered her name."

Sherlock shrugged. "This one seemed worth the effort."

"Yeah," John said, smiling. "She is."

Sherlock glanced at him more carefully. "You're already smitten."

"What? Well, I don't know…"

"Oh, yes, you do. You kissed two: no, three times. And I don't mean pecks on the cheek."

"How did you know… oh, never mind."

"The color of your lips."

John blinked. "What about my lips?"

"You're wearing her lipstick. Too much for one kiss but not enough for four."

John wiped at his mouth with his fingers and frowned. "Why do I even bother to ask anymore."

"So you can tell me I'm amazing?" Sherlock asked.

"You don't need that overblown ego of yours filled any further," John said, shaking his head. He stretched. "OK, are you gonna tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

John rolled his eyes. "Tell me what, he asks. Your  **date** , Sherlock: the first date of your entire life. How did it  **go**?"

"Oh, the date," Sherlock said. "It went…" his eyes moved back and forth for a few seconds before he said: "fine. It went fine."

John blinked. "Fine."

"Yes. Fine."

"Your first date ever, and it was just  **fine**?"

Sherlock sighed. "What do you want, a full synopsis?"

John crossed his arms. "Yes."

Sherlock sat up, folded his arms and gave John his full glaring attention. "Well. Let's see. We had dinner, and Molly drank to the point of mild intoxication, which resulted in her pulling half the tablecloth and nearly all the dishes onto the floor, which got her a standing ovation. We then moved on to dancing, where I insulted two uni girls to the point of tears and they ran off, which upset Molly and nearly ruined our evening until I apologized and later made amends with said girls. We left the club only to be confronted by a camera-wielding Kitty Riley, who made some uncomplimentary comments that resulted in Molly-what is the term? Oh, yes: resulted in Molly bitch-slapping her and threatening to show her Bart's autopsy room, at which point our roving reporter made a hasty retreat. I took Molly home and gave her the second romantic kiss of my entire life, after which I asked her out for tomorrow night. Then I got in the taxi only to discover that the driver was Moriarty, formerly in disguise, who told me to stop letting my 'great romance' go to my head and start looking for him, then he let me off here and ever-so-politely didn't charge me a fare."

John blinked. Several times. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Sherlock smiled. "And how was  **your**  date?"

John blinked again and finally found his voice. "Ordinary. It was ordinary, it was quite…. uneventful."

Sherlock nodded. "I deduced as much."

"And thank God for it," John muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock smirked. "I told you I don't do anything in half measures."

"And you damn well meant it." John frowned. "Hang on: Moriarty was your taxi driver? And he knows about you and Molly."

"Yes."

"Is she safe?"

"For now, it seems," Sherlock answered.

"What about you? And what about later?"

"That would rather be why I'm going to track him down, now wouldn't it? By the way, need your help with that tomorrow."

John nodded. "Yeah, sure. Do you have any clues?"

Sherlock's face was unreadable for a second. Then he winked. "I always have clues, John."

"Nice of you to share that before now," John muttered. But he winked back.

"I was on a date."

"Hell of a time for that, too, Sherlock. Isn't that going to distract you?"

"I can safely say that dating Molly is going to be distracting, yes. But it will also have some great rewards."  _Like saving lives._

"Well I said it before, I think you've gone mad, but you always figure it out in the end, so… good."

"Good?"

"I'm glad you had a good time with Molly."

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't say that."

John smiled. "You didn't have to. And you also didn't deny it."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Well, I'm off to bed." John rose and stretched. "See you in the morning, then."

"Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock."

John had taken four steps when Sherlock spoke again. "John?"

John turned. "Yes?"

Sherlock's eyes swept around the room for a second before they met his. "I did. Have a good time with Molly."

John smiled. "There. Was that so hard to admit?"

He didn't wait for an answer, just laughed a bit and headed for his bedroom.

Sherlock watched him go, a shadow crossing his face.  _Harder than you know._

Sherlock awoke the next morning restless and driven…. in other words, his normal self. As he applied three nicotine patches he smiled. Who said you couldn't separate your heart from your head? He was doing a spectacular job of it. Hunting Moriarty by day, dating Molly by night… it didn't seem too difficult. Why did it give most people so many problems?

Oh, yes. He wasn't most people.

For a man who was being forced by the greatest psychopathic criminal mind of the century to enter LE LIAISON DANGEREUSE with the formerly stammering pathologist who was confusingly in love with him, his life was pretty good at the moment.

The only real fly in the ointment was how he was going to handle the aftermath with Molly. Well. He'd be honest. But kind. Not his usual way of being kind, the one that caused John to get angry, but truly, ordinary people kind. It wouldn't be fine. But eventually it would be all right. Maybe he could even help Molly find a good bloke so she'd be happy.

The thought of Molly with another man gave him an odd little twitch in his stomach.

Obviously he needed to eat. He'd only consumed about a third of his dinner the night before. After they'd finished for the day? But then was his picnic with Molly. Well, a snack wouldn't hurt.

 _Enough thinking about food_ , he admonished himself. It wasn't like him to be this hungry normally. He'd ignored it before: he'd do it again. End of story.

He went downstairs just in time to hear the doorbell. He signed for the package, a box in brown wrapping, his name and address neatly written out, no return address. He took it to the table and cleared off space near the microscope. Examined it carefully. The handwriting was different this time. No real surprise, that. What intrigued him was he couldn't deduce the contents from the outside.

He opened it slowly, methodically. Inside were three other boxes of varying size, each wrapped differently. He opened the smallest one first. It contained another box, which contained a red plastic jewel case and had a CD inside. Written in permanent marker in the same handwriting, in red, were the words "Sherlock & Molly: Official Soundtrack."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, carefully opening the case and examining the CD. Satisfied, he returned it to the case and put the case face down on his laptop.

The second box held a large box of See's Chocolates. A notecard on top read:  _Sweets for the sweet. For your lips only. Have some now, won't you?_

He frowned. Well, it was only chocolate. His body would process the sugar quickly enough. And he was peckish. He knew they were safe: Moriarty didn't want him hurt or dead, not yet at least.

He opened the box and scanned the contents. Four dozen pieces, all dark chocolates. He didn't bother to wonder how Moriarty knew he favored dark chocolate: rather, he took note that they shared the preference. He selected a piece, felt it, sniffed it. Apricot cream.

He popped it into his mouth, closing his eyes, analyzing the flavors. It was rather good. He opened his eyes and reached back in the box. Before he realized it, he'd eaten four pieces. He blinked. Oh, well. He was just doing as instructed, wasn't he?

He closed the box and secreted it away in the living room, then turned his attention to the final box. It was at this point that John entered with a yawn. "Morning."

"Ah, good, you're up. We're leaving in fifteen minutes."

John blinked. "I've had no tea and no breakfast yet."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Twenty minutes?"

"Thirty," John snapped. He glanced at the box and stopped. "What's this?"

"Some fan mail from Moriarty."

John blinked more. "Oooo… kay. Hang on while I get some coffee."

"I thought you wanted tea."

"NOT anymore," John said through tightened lips, heading for the kitchen. "And I might want to add something to the coffee."

Sherlock waited for him to return with his coffee before he opened the final box. This one contained a plastic grocery bag from Tesco's. Slightly damp. Sherlock felt the bag carefully, frowning. Then he opened it. Inside that was another bag. Sainsbury's. Inside that was a tabloid.  _The Sun_. And on the front page was a photo of him leaving Club Aquarium, Molly beside him, her hand in his.

 _Genius Detective on a New Case: a Date_ , the headline read.

"Oh, Jesus," John sighed.

Sherlock glanced sideways at him, then flipped the paper open to the story and they began to read.

_Sherlock Holmes is on his most challenging case yet: a study in love, exclusively from Kitty Riley_

_Sorry, ladies and gentlemen: Boffin Sherlock Holmes is apparently no longer on the market._

_Holmes, former darling of the Yard and press alike before his 'fall' from grace over the Richard Brook/Jim Moriarty incident, has apparently decided to investigate a new venture: romance. His partner in the case? Not Bachelor John Watson, amazing as that seems._

_The 'lucky' person in question is one Miss Molly Kathleen Hooper, a pathologist at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Miss Hooper, who attended Oxford University before working at St. Bart's, is believed to have been the silent accomplice in Holmes faking his death last year, though there is no conclusive proof of this._

John raised his eyebrows. "Molly went to Oxford? Did you know that?"

"No," Sherlock said absently, continuing to read.

_Though Holmes was officially cleared of any wrongdoing earlier this year, questions still remain. Where is 'Jim Moriarty?' being the biggest one. Is it all just part of some larger game between the two? Could the 'Reichenbach Hero' somehow still truly be a villain?_

_But wait: the plot thickens. This reporter has learned that Wildcat Molly Hooper has been seen in the company of those fabulous Baker Street boys on and off for over two years. Loverboy Sherlock Holmes has, in fact, been spotted joining her in the lab and the canteen at the hospital on more than a few occasions._

"What the… 'Wildcat' Molly Hooper? 'Loverboy' Sherlock Holmes? Jesus, Sherlock, she still wants to hang you up after all this time," John said angrily.

"Shh," Sherlock said quietly, reading.

_The BIG question, of course, is how long has this been going on? Have they had a secret tryst all this time? Or did the romance blossom after a grateful Holmes was saved and exonerated with Hooper's help, if was indeed her? And why did they decide to go public with their relationship? Never fear, good readers: Kitty Riley will get to the bottom it._

_Watch for further developments as they occur, exclusively in **The Sun**!_

Sherlock slowly and carefully closed the paper and laid it on the table.

John huffed. "She's got some nerve, hasn't she?" he asked, sipping his coffee.

"Not surprising. She feels like she needs to redeem herself. After we proved the kidnapper wasn't me, she looked foolish. She looked more foolish after we proved there was no Rich Brook."

"Yeah. If only we could've taken Moriarty none of this would be happening." John's eyes darkened. "Sherlock, we've got to capture him alive this time. It's the only thing that will erase what's left of the doubts. There are still too many people who think there was, or is, still some sort of scheme between you two."

"And I've told you before I don't care what people think."

"You'll care if whatever this new plan of his is lands you in prison, or worse!" John snapped.

Sherlock glanced down. "Yes, well, we'll see about avoiding that. Being on the run and handcuffed to you wasn't my idea of a good time." He smiled faintly.

John returned the smile, then frowned. "You know what this means, right? Molly will get hounded. She could get in trouble at Bart's if they feel they need to protect their image…"

"It didn't happen before, and it won't happen now."

"How do you know," John began, then stopped. "Of course. Mycroft."

"Well I wasn't about to let Molly lose her job and her license or go to prison for saving my life," Sherlock said indignantly.

"Miracle Worker Mycroft Holmes," John said. "Too bad he can't help us."

"I don't need his help," Sherlock snapped as he went to get his coat. John followed suit, stopping at the window and frowning. "Not yet, at least," Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah? You might want to rethink that while you've got a golden opportunity," John said.

Sherlock frowned again. "What are you talking about?"

John pulled back the curtain as Sherlock walked over to the window. A sleek black car with tinted windows was sitting in front of 221 Baker.

Sherlock's mobile rang. He answered it with a sigh. "Good morning, brother dear. How are you? Are you taking us to breakfast?"

"Get in the car, both of you, please," Mycroft said silkily. "And bring whatever evidence you have so far with you as well, won't you?"

"Mycroft-"

"Excellent. The car will be waiting. See you shortly…  **Loverboy**."

Mycroft ended the call. Sherlock took a deep breath and plucked up his scarf.

John looked at him. "Are you-"

"Yes."

"Am I-"

"Yes."

"So much for breakfast," John sighed.

Sherlock slipped on his coat. "So much for looking for Moriarty first thing."

After gathering a few items, they left the flat and entered the waiting car as though they were being taken to face a firing squad.

Mycroft was waiting for them in his office, sitting behind his desk and sipping a cup of tea. On a serving trolley near one chair sat a pot of tea with settings for two, an empty plate, and another plate that held toast, sausages, pastries and fresh cut fruit. John immediately sat in that chair and began filling the plate, pausing to look at Mycroft and say "thank you."

Mycroft inclined his head, then turned his attention to Sherlock, who was still standing. "Now, then, little brother. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to explain why, with James Moriarty out for your blood again, you decided this would be the perfect time to play at a romance?"

Sherlock put the requested items down in front of Mycroft, not quite looking at him. "I'm not  **playing**  at anything."

"Really," Mycroft said levelly. "Then am I to take it that this photograph of you outside Club Aquarium holding hands with Doctor Hooper is fraudulent?"

Sherlock glanced down and shook his head.

"I didn't think so. Start explaining yourself, Sherlock."

"There is nothing to explain," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I rather think there is." Mycroft looked him over and frowned. "What's that in your pocket, a new mobile?"

"Yes."

Mycroft sat down his cup and held out his hand.

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"Hand me your new mobile, please."

"Why?" Sherlock asked apprehensively.

Mycroft flexed his fingers. "Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly held the mobile out. Mycroft took it, carefully turned it around in his hand as though studying a rare bird. Then he sat it down on the desk and raised his eyebrows at his brother.

"Ridiculous choice for a new mobile," Mycroft said mildly. "Now, then. I am going to go over all the information and think, and the two of you are going to sit and be quiet while I do so." As he spoke he rose and motioned for John to stay put while motioning for Sherlock to follow him.

Sherlock looked at him. Mycroft made an impatient gesture. Sherlock moved to the middle of the room and Mycroft gently pressed a button. Schubert's  _Death and the Maiden_ began to play.

Sherlock gave Mycroft a glance that was part approving, part concerned, but followed him as they slipped soundlessly into an adjacent room.

The door closed silently behind them. Mycroft turned to face Sherlock. "Now. I estimate that we have eighty seconds remaining before Moriarty becomes suspicious. Tell me anything you can and be brief."

One minute later, John watched them reappear. Mycroft slipped back behind his desk, and Sherlock sat down in the other chair, soundlessly lifting the cup of tea. Mycroft flicked a downward glance at the items: picture of Molly's back that Lestrade had given John,  _Love Story_  video, Sherlock's copy of  _The Sun_  and the bags. He lowered the volume of the music, but did not turn it off.

He picked up his desk phone and pressed a button. "Bring me the file on Doctor Hooper. And change her status to grade two, active."

Sherlock frowned. "I hardly think that's necessary," he said, pocketing his mobile again.

"Doctor Hooper is obviously a target. If not now, then later. She was used as a warning to you, Sherlock, and if Moriarty cared enough to make her the vessel of that warning, she is still in danger.  **So**  sorry to complicate your new-found love life. Now. Has he visited you?"

"He was the taxi driver last night as we left the club," Sherlock admitted.

Mycroft smirked. "No doubt you were too  **besotted**  with Doctor Hooper to notice. And?"

"And he told me to start looking for him, not to let my 'great romance' go to my head."

"Sounds like good advice, from a madman." Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest. "Why her, Sherlock. Out of all the possibilities, why did you choose to go on a date with Doctor Hooper?"

"You are obviously aware of possibilities that I'm not," Sherlock said flatly.

"You could have gone to any number of locations and met a woman. Yet you chose her. Is it because you're familiar with her? She'll let you into the lab, give you someone's necrotic hand in a jar to take home? Because you know each other and you can skip through a lot of the things you'd find especially boring and tedious in a relationship?"

Sherlock looked down. Mycroft stared. "Good God."

John said nothing, as his mouth was, and had been, full with his breakfast, but he watched them intently. He knew better than anyone how they were when they were in the same room.

"You act as though such inclination on my part is an impossible occurrence," Sherlock said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Yes. It should have been. The only other interest you've shown in a woman was with Irene Adler, and we both know what that really was. No, no. This is different. You… care about Doctor Hooper. Why?"

Sherlock blinked. "She's my friend. She saved my life, remember?"

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock: I've told you this before. Of course, when did you ever want to listen to me, hmm?"

"At any rate," Mycroft continued smoothly, "You must find Moriarty before whatever plan he has goes any further. Judging by the copy of  _The Sun_ , I trust you already have an idea of where to look?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded. "Good. Good. Keep me informed, would you?"

"Of course," Sherlock said agreeably.

John finished his food and frowned. "Hang on. You know where to look? Based on the paper he sent?"

Both of them turned to look at him. "Yes," they said in unison.

"How do you know?"

Sherlock worked on his phone as he spoke.

"The bags, John. One was damp and one was dry. The damp bag was from a Tesco. The dry one was from a Sainsbury. The damp bag smelled faintly of industrial smoke, which the dampness amplified. The dry one had traces of dirt inside, dirt that contained bits of sawdust and metal. A business that was operational wouldn't have that on their floors without cleaning it up. It came from an abandoned building, most likely a former factory, the dampness indicating condensation at a level we did not have in London last night so it's from outside London, but not so far away as to have made it difficult to obtain a copy of the tabloid and have it sent within the time frame that occurred. So, we are looking for a location within a reasonable distance that fits the criteria of both the markets and an abandoned factory nearby and…"

Sherlock smiled and held the phone up. "Here we are."

John blinked. Mycroft almost smiled.

"Well. You'd best be off, then," Mycroft said.

"Yes. Lovely visit, though," Sherlock answered.

John nodded and stood up. "Thanks again for the breakfast."

"It was my pleasure, John," Mycroft said.

They were three steps from the door when he spoke again. "And Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced back. "Yes, Mycroft?"

"Do let me know if you need a good book about sex. I'll have one sent to you."

John struggled not to laugh as they left.

Mycroft thanked the assistant who brought him Doctor Hooper's file. He opened it and stared without seeing it.

Sherlock obviously did not see what was so apparent to everyone else. But then, emotions of that sort were unfamiliar territory for his brother.

Mycroft shook his head and looked at the photos of her. Rather ordinary, though not unattractive. It was her eyes, he decided. There was something, some spark in her eyes that disturbed him. As though she could bring light in to a dark place.

_May God have mercy on us all._

Mycroft shook his head again and began to read.

Four hours after their meeting with Mycroft, Sherlock and John returned to the flat.

Well, returned was a kind word.

Sherlock stormed back, flung himself into his favorite chair and proceeded to sulk.

John sat at the desk, opened his laptop, and waited for Mount Sherlock to blow.

He only had to wait twenty-three seconds.

"Nothing!" Sherlock shouted into the air.

"It wasn't nothing, you found a clue," John argued.

Sherlock snorted, drawing the two pieces of paper from his pocket again. "Two hours, John. Two hours I searched."

"You?"

"Fine,  **we**. The point is, all we found was… this."

He shook the papers in the air in John's direction. One said "Getting" and the other said "Warmer" and they grated Sherlock's nerves. The taunting, the teasing, and there was nothing helpful to deduce from them except that he'd been right and Moriarty had for some reason been there. But why? A dirty abandoned factory wasn't Moriarty's style.

Sherlock frowned. Maybe… maybe that in itself was the clue. But he wasn't sure yet what it meant.

"Sherlock, you know you always sort it out. If it only took a few hours, it wouldn't be Moriarty, would it."

"No," Sherlock conceded. "He does love his little games. Playing 'Jim from IT,' playing gay…"

Sherlock sat up like a shot, what little color he had leaving his face.

John stared. He knew that look. "Sherlock?"

"I am a fool," he whispered.

"What?" John asked, baffled.

Sherlock shook his head violently, turning in the chair to face John. "When is the first time we saw Moriarty?"

John frowned, thinking. "Erm, in the lab, wasn't it? He came in with…"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, my God," John said faintly.

"He came in with Molly," Sherlock finished the sentence. "Molly went on three dates with him, John. Three. Then she broke it off, and I'm certain it was because I told her he was gay. But why. He didn't need Molly to get into the lab: he could've come in anytime under the pretext of looking at a computer. He'd been watching her, John: looking for an opportunity to find out things about me, get an "in" with me. He could've played Jim the Handyman for Mrs. Hudson, or a Sherlock-hating sympathizer to Donovan. He could even have been Doctor Jim, war veteran, and gotten to know you. But no. He chose Molly. Why?"

"Because she's quiet and unassuming?" John guessed.

"Close to me in a way, but not too close," Sherlock murmured. "But he didn't have to date her. He could've used a dozen other pretenses to be around. Instead, he dated her but played gay, knowing that I'd tell her and she'd believe me and break it off with him. No, he did it for very specific reasons. He wanted to know about me. And he wanted to know about her. And he wanted me to know that he wanted to know. Which means…"

John waited. Sherlock said nothing. "Which means what?" he asked.

"Which means that he's left a clue. Somewhere, somehow, he's given Molly information that she doesn't recognize as being significant."

John nodded. "Yeah, OK, that kind of makes sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"But how are you going to find out, Sherlock? That was ages ago, and Molly doesn't have a… mind palace. How do you know she'll remember whatever it is?"

"I don't," Sherlock replied. "But I have to ask her."

John stared. "Ask her. You're going to ask her about her dates with Moriarty. On  **your**  date with her."

"Yes, of course."

"When? When are you going to do this? While you're having the picnic? 'Molly, please pass the prosciutto, and by the way, I need to know everything Moriarty did and said while he was with you?' Or are you going to be even more spectacularly classy and ask her while you're unbuttoning her top?"

Sherlock stared at John, bewildered. "What?"

"TIMING, Sherlock?" John reminded him in exasperation.

"Oh. Well I-" he broke off.

"Exactly," John said firmly.

Hmm. It was a bit problematic. Ask her too early in the evening and it might ruin their date. Ask her too late and it might ruin… after. No. Somewhere there was a window: the perfect time frame to question her. After eating dinner but before dessert? After dessert but before making out? After making out but before going back to her flat? At her flat but before more making out?

"I don't bloody believe you," John's voice broke into his analysis.

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You are sitting there PLANNING when the best time tonight will be to talk to her about him, aren't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Isn't that the best thing to do?"

"No, Sherlock, it isn't. The BEST thing to do is give it a rest for one night! If Moriarty is waiting on something, he'll keep one more night. Ask her tomorrow in the daytime, not on your bloody date!"

"With lives potentially hanging in the balance?" Sherlock asked acidly. "If it would solve the problem, I'd ask her about him in the middle of sex, John!"

John jumped up out of the chair. "Fine. Go ahead and ruin your date. Don't blame me if Molly starts crying and leaves you alone in the middle of Holland Park!" He grabbed his coat.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I need some air."

"We just came from being out."

"I need more air."

"You're going to see her, aren't you. This Mary."

"So what if I am?" John snapped, looking for his keys. "Look, Sherlock, I know this is important, but it just doesn't seem like one night will matter. Is it really worth you and Molly maybe having a row?"

"It's worth you and I having a row, so I'd say that is a yes," Sherlock said.

"Fine, you know what? You're right. You usually are, aren't you? So just do your little deduction and coldly calculate when the best time will be."

"John…"

John found his keys. "I  **said** , you're right."

"Then why are you still angry?"

"Because I don't like it!"

"Well neither do I, thank you very much!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"I'll see you later. I'm taking Mary to lunch." He headed for the door.

"Would you like me to advise you on what topics of conversation are appropriate at what times?" Sherlock shouted after his retreating form.

Once John was gone, Sherlock bolted from his chair, opened the box of chocolates, and ate four more apricot creams. He slammed the lid back on with a scowl.

Moriarty was right, damn him. Chocolate  **did**  make him feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Killing Moon" by Echo & the Bunnymen, 1984, Korova Records. No copyright infringement intended.


	12. Found Out About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly have their picnic, Sherlock gets a vital clue, and he shares an intimate encounter with Molly.

After he had the chocolates, Sherlock got a text from Moriarty.

_Good boy. You really should eat some every morning. Soooo delicious and pleasurable!_

Sherlock snorted. Moriarty would have been a perfect spokesman for See's Candy. He still wasn't sure what effect the chocolate would have on him, if any, but he could always analyze it at the lab at Bart's. He knew his poisons (well, there had been that one time, but it hadn't been his fault) and Moriarty was definitely not poisoning him.

A few minutes later, he got a text from Molly.

_You've seen it?_

_Yes,_ he answered.  _Does it bother you?_

 _Only that she's an absolute bitch_ , was Molly's reply, and one corner of his mouth quirked up.  _Bitch Kitty Riley._

_Agreed. I'll see you at 7?_

_Yes. I'm looking forward to it._

_As am I. Until then. SH_

Sherlock sat down at John's laptop with the  _Sherlock & Molly: Official Soundtrack _CD. He put it in and opened John's CD player, scanning the song titles.

Most of them he was already familiar with. There were two, however, that he was not. "It's Love" by King's X, and "Charlotte Sometimes" by the Cure. He hit play for "It's Love" and sat back with eyes closed to listen.

_And It's love,_

_That holds it all together_

_I just had to let you know_

_That it's love_

_That's holding back the weather_

_And the same will let it go_

Well. That one was easy to figure out. It was an assurance and a warning. "It's love that's holding back the weather, and the same will let it go?" Right. His falling in love with Molly was what was keeping the bombs from going off: would keep them from going off.

"I get it, already," he barked at his phone. He played the other song.

He frowned. He'd never had much interest in the Cure: too much wailing, too emo for his tastes. He'd never heard this song before, and he couldn't understand the significance of all of the lyrics. Molly was Charlotte Sometimes: he got that bit. But was she the dreamer or one of the dancers? Was he supposed to call her his "scared princess?" It did fit in a way. "She was crying, crying for a girl, who died so many years before…" who was this girl? And what did that mean, "dreams a wall around herself?" Molly didn't have any walls when it came to him. She was as transparent most of the time as glass.

_Glass sealed and pretty…_

"I don't particularly like the Cure," he said loudly.

A text.  _Molly does. And she's…_

"She's what counts in this relationship, yes, I know," Sherlock snapped.

And then it clicked.

_She's what counts in this relationship._

_You're wrong, you know. You_ _**do** _ _count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you._

_Damn._

"You knew," he said hollowly. "You've known all this time, haven't you."

Another text.  _Atta boy. Daddy is so proud of you._

"It's me you want," Sherlock continued. "Can't you just leave her?"

_You know the answer to that. But it's sweet of you to offer. See? I told you love would be easy._

"I am NOT in love!" Sherlock shouted, jumping to his feet. "I am not, and will never be, in love! STOP THIS NOW!"

He barely stopped himself from hurling the phone as hard as he could towards a wall. He staggered back, breathing heavily, clutching the phone in an iron grip.

_Honey. Relax. You're getting all worked up for nothing. Tomorrow I'll give you another clue to find me. So get a hold of yourself and chill out. You've got a date tonight, remember?_

"As if I could forget," Sherlock snarled.

_Easy, now, big fella. You've got a picture perfect picnic to plan._

"GO AWAY!" Sherlock screamed.

The phone went silent.

He sat back down in the chair, folding his fingers up, commanding his body to calm itself. After a few minutes he felt better. He removed the CD and put it in his room. Then he began to think.

He needed to phone Lestrade before he showed up again.

He needed to plan the date. What they would eat for the picnic, what he would wear. He needed to get a picnic basket. He had an appropriate blanket and John had a small portable CD player.

He needed to get the movie.

He needed to eat. For some reason he was hungry. Probably because he'd eaten next to nothing for days.

He had a list now. Getting angry wasn't going to solve anything, even though it had made him feel better. It was time to get to work.

By the time John returned, Sherlock had accomplished all his objectives and was at the end of the movie. He hit the stop button and looked up at his best friend.

"Long lunch."

John shrugged. "We went for a walk and sat outside after. Her shift was over."

Sherlock nodded. "All right?"

John nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. This whole Moriarty situation has me on edge a bit."

"Why? He's not after you."

"No…he's just after my best friend and another friend is all. Could you, just once, stop being so bloody thick?"

Sherlock sighed. "I do so envy you, John."

John sat down and sighed as well. "Why is it this time? My ordinary little mind again?"

"No one expects things from you all the time. No one is disappointed in you, angry with you, wants you to do things, be things that you're not. You have no expectations to live up to: no one making demands, pressuring you to fit into some mold they've created."

John stared. "Why do I get the feeling you're not talking about Molly?"

"No, I'm not. Molly loves me as I am, but I still upset her like I upset everyone else. I have a gift, John: a singular gift for making people grit their teeth and want to get away from me." He looked John in the eye. "Except for you, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. And even all of you do sometimes. But you come back. Thank you for that."

John looked gobsmacked. He cleared his throat, tried to speak and failed, tried again. "Yeah, well, you're welcome. Now what the hell have you done with Sherlock Holmes, because he doesn't talk like this."

Sherlock only laughed. "How was lunch with Mary?"

"Good. It was… really good."

"Definitely smitten," Sherlock smirked.

"Yeah, I think… I could be. And it feels fantastic." John smiled. "I want you to meet her soon. Maybe we could double?"

Sherlock barely managed not to roll his eyes and spout off about doubling and romance and sentiment. Instead he said: "I'm sure Molly would like that."

"Meant to ask, how is she? Has she seen the paper yet?"

"Yes. She doesn't care. Called Kitty Riley "an absolute bitch," actually."

"Well Molly's a smart girl," John grinned. "Doctor? Oxford? Plays piano and sings? What else don't we know about her?"

Sherlock drew a deep contemplative breath. "What, indeed."

 

Sherlock stretched out on his back on the blanket, thankful that it was a fairly warm, clear night. Molly, still sitting, seemed torn and confused as to what she should do. He helped her out by reaching up and gently tugging her down beside him, nestling her against him on her side to face him. She made a sound he recognized as a sigh of contentment and rested her head on his chest. He glanced down at her. Her breathing was slow, her body relaxed, a smile of utter bliss on her face.

He was baffled. How? She knew as well as anyone what he was like: better than most, actually. How could she be so happy? How could this quiet, kind woman be so completely content to be beside him? He might as well ask John why he put up with him, though. He knew the answer. He just didn't really understand it: couldn't quite believe it.

Molly was almost always nice. Sherlock was hardly ever considerate. She was patient: he was intolerant. She was smart: he was… well, not a fair comparison. Yet Molly loved him, deeply and unhesitatingly. He had no doubt that if he'd told her he needed her to step into a fire to help him, she'd have done it. That's what love was, he supposed. He had…well…cared about John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. That's why he'd "died." He had died so that they would live. He didn't like sentiment, didn't always understand it. Usually didn't. But he felt it nonetheless. For those few that Moriarty had called his friends.

 _Well. Plus one_ , he thought, looking down at Molly again. Molly had been his secret weapon in the fight against Moriarty for his life. Or so he'd thought. Everything was a tangled web now.

Molly’s hand moved up to rest over his heart, pulling him out of his introspection.  “That was delicious,” she said, moving her head a bit so she could look up at his face.

“I’m glad you liked it.  I should have asked you what sort of things you like to eat beforehand, though.”

“You did great,” she said.  “I was just glad to see you eat!”

“Does **everyone** think I starve myself?” Sherlock asked with a chuckle.

 “Well you don’t eat much, or often, from what I’ve seen.  It’s a wonder you don’t get ill.  Anyway,  I didn’t feel so bad for stuffing my face!”

“You hardly stuffed your face, Molly,” he said, amused.

“Well, it felt like it,” she said, feeling bashful and a bit stupid for having said it.  Really, who said such things to their date?  But this wasn’t just any man she was on a date with.  It was Sherlock, who had known her for years, who had told her she counted, who was her friend.  Molly wasn’t going to censor herself.  He wouldn’t stand for it and the effort of trying to fool him would exhaust her.  Plus it would never work.  She was going to just be herself.  Even if he ran away screaming.  The fact that so far he had not gave her more hope than she wanted to acknowledge.

He smiled at her, a curious, open smile like he’d done before he…

_Oh, God._

Sherlock turned onto his side, facing her, eyes searching her face as though it could answer a question.  He reached a hand up, brushing his long fingers through her hair before he leaned slightly towards her…

And suddenly stopped.

“Sherlock?” she asked, panicked.

He smiled.  “Sorry.  Awful timing but I need to go to the lavatory.  Back in a bit.”

“Oh,” Molly said as he rose.

He looked down at her.  “I’m glad you were hungry, Molly,” he said, and his tone made her shiver.

She drew an unsteady breath as he walked away.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Sherlock whipped out his phone and made a call.

“Yes?” Mycroft asked sweetly when he answered.  “You seem to be having a splendid time: why are you calling me in the middle of your date? Do you need advice? Very well.  First, place your lips on hers…”

“Call off your dogs, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

“My dogs?”

“Your men, Mycroft. There are three men watching us and I know they’re some of your faithful hounds.”

“You just now noticed that? You **are** besotted.”

“Don’t be dull.  I noticed them earlier, but it wasn’t such an issue then.”

“Oh? And why is it an issue now? Are you and Doctor Hooper about to **do it** in Holland Park?”

“Call. Them. Off.,” Sherlock ordered.

A pause.  “I’ll have them go somewhere else in the park for now.”

“Fine,” Sherlock ground out, knowing that would be as far as Mycroft would go.

“And Sherlock?”

“ **Yes**?”

“Do use protection, won’t you? You as a father is the last thing I need to worry about.”

Sherlock shut the cover of the phone with a resounding snap.

Molly was waiting patiently, looking up at the sky, her teeth biting down on her lower lip a bit, her eyes searching.  She jumped when he reappeared, clutching a hand over her heart.  “Oh! You’re always so quiet,” she said with a smile. 

“Sorry,” he told her, lying down beside her. Well, this was as good of a time as any. “Didn’t mean to turn you into a scared princess.”

Molly turned pale and her eyes widened.  She looked upset.  No.  Terrified.

He frowned.  “Molly?”

She sat up abruptly, hugging herself, turning away from him.

He sat up, slipped his arms around her and turned her towards him.  “Molly?  What’s wrong?”

She drew an unsteady breath.  “He… he called me that once.”

_Click._

Well, he’d started it.  Best to use the opening now.

“I know you didn’t know…but it… reminds me of him.  It took a long time for me to even be able to listen to the song again… I wouldn’t have thought you’d like the Cure.  For both of you to say that…” she shivered again. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, holding her close until he felt some of the tension leave her.  “Will you tell me about it?”

“You… you want me to tell you about him?  Now?”

“It’s obviously upset you a great deal. Please, I want to understand,” he said gently, caressing her arms.

She glanced down, and Sherlock thought she was going to refuse.  He waited, and after a long pause she spoke.

“All right.”

He maneuvered them so that she was sitting with her back pressed to his chest, his legs resting outside hers, guessing it would be easier for her if she wasn’t looking at him. Then he wrapped his arms around her, pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

Her voice was low and hesitant.  “He started writing to me on my blog. I’d been posting about… well.  About you, actually.  How stupid I was, mooning over you.  I didn’t think anyone read my blog, it was more like a diary, but somehow he found it.  He… he said I had a cute nose and asked me if I wanted to have coffee.  So we met in the canteen.”

Sherlock nodded.  He already knew all this: he’d read Molly’s blog after it all went down.  But this wasn’t the time to tell her to hurry it up.  They were on a date, after all.  And if she got more upset and flustered, she could miss a vital clue.

“He was…” she paused.  “He was lovely.  Funny, smart, kind.  He made me feel like the most amazing women in the world.  And I’m not.  But I felt like it.”  Her voice roughened, sounded pained.

“He came round my flat soon after, and Toby loved him.  We watched _Glee_ and he said he loved it.  We kept meeting at work: coffee, lunch.  On our second real date, he took me to dinner, then we went dancing.  He’s a great dancer.  Not as good as you, though.  He was… he’d keep looking around, as though he was looking for someone, or expecting someone to see us.  It was weird.”

Sherlock drew a deep breath.  “What sort of things did you all talk about?”

She shrugged.  “Work.  School.  Family.  The typical things you talk about when you fancy someone and want to get to know them better.”

“What did he saw about his family?”

“That he was an only child, and both his parents were dead. That he’d moved around a lot, taking odd jobs.”

“And work?”

“He’d just been hired on at Bart’s a week before we met.  He’d seen me but had been afraid to approach me.  Then he’d found my blog and even though I had a crush on you, he decided to risk asking me to meet him.”

Sherlock nodded.  “What happened after you went dancing?”

“He brought me home, and came in.  I… I wanted to impress him.  I knew how much he loved music and theater, so I sang for him.  And it was…odd.”

“How so?”

“Well after, he stared at me like he’d never seen me before: never seen **any** woman before.  He told me I was amazing, and I really thought he meant it.  But something about it bothered him.  I don’t know what.  Then we, ah, made out a bit, and then he said he needed to go.   He kissed me good night and said he was really looking forward to our next date, he had a surprise for me.”

“As he went to leave, I saw a spider and screamed.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “You cut open dead people, Molly.”

“Dead people are not live spiders, thank you.”

“Noted.  Please, go on.”

“Anyway, he killed it.  I thanked him, told him I was sorry for being such a girl.  But he just laughed and kissed me again.  He said: “my scared princess.”  Then we spent maybe ten more minutes discussing the Cure, and then he did leave.”

Molly stopped here.  Sherlock waited.  “And then what?”

She hesitated.

He kissed the top of her head.  “I’m right here, Molly. He’s not.”

“But he’s out there somewhere,” she murmured.  “Waiting.  Waiting like a noiseless patient spider.”

He blinked.  That was as fitting a description of Moriarty as the one he’d given the court. 

“I **will** find him,” Sherlock said, kissing her again.

She nodded and took a ragged breath.  “The day of our third date, you met him.  And you told me he was gay and all those other things you said.  I was…I…I was so angry at you.  But I knew you were right, because you’re almost always right.  So I decided I’d break it off that night after dinner.”

“So we had dinner, and he was still so amazingly sweet.  I hated it.  I hated you, too.  For ruining it.  But it wasn’t fair to hate you for being honest. Punch you in the face, maybe, for being cruel, but not hate you.”

Molly felt his mouth turn up in a faint smile.

“So he took me home, and we stood outside, and I told him I thought it was best if we stopped seeing each other.  He asked me why, and I told him… well, I didn’t know what to say here at first.  I couldn’t say “because Sherlock told me you’re gay.” So I told him it was because I didn’t think I was over you enough to start something properly. And then it got really weird.”

Sherlock’s arms tightened around her.  “How?”

“He… he said he knew it… it was you.  That you’d probably said something to me, like told me he was gay.  I protested but he shook his head.  He said he knew the real reason it was happening.  He looked… sad.  Like I had broken his heart.  Isn’t that insane?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.  He went very still.

“He…he said he understood.  That it was all right.  He…”

She trembled.

“Molly,” Sherlock said softly, holding her so tight that she felt like nothing in the world could get through his arms to hurt her.

“He said… he said he should have known that an angel couldn’t love a demon.  At least not when the angel already loved another angel.  But even angels and demons made the same mistakes in love.”

Sherlock felt a cold wave of dread sweep him out to sea and pull him back again.

“Then he kissed my hand and said: “Goodbye, Molly Hooper.”  And then he left.”

“I tried to contact him a few times after that, he’d scared me but I was worried for him. But he’d never answer. And then…well…”

She sighed.  “So now you know.”

“Yes,” he said softly.  _Yes. I do._

Sherlock’s mind was racing.  And every direction he went, every which way he turned, a door opened into another door and none of them actually led to anything except more questions and places he’d already been.

It was Molly that Moriarty had ‘stupidly, ordinarily’ fallen in love with.  He’d taken staying on the same page to a sadistic extreme that Sherlock was only now grasping the full complexity of.  Most disturbing was: why did Moriarty want him to know?  It wasn’t just to show him the circle.  Moriarty never did anything that didn’t have a purpose.  Now he had to figure out what it was.

He didn’t understand.  If Moriarty had loved Molly, why did he want him to love her as well?  Moriarty didn’t strike him as the type of man who shared his toys, and everything he did he did for a reason that gave him his own perverse brand of pleasure.  There was a plan, an end to the movie, and he had to figure out what it was in time to stop it.

The sound of Molly sniffling brought him out of his mind, back to the reality that for all intents and purposes, he was on a date with a woman who had no clue what was going on behind the curtain.  Analysis would have to wait.

He maneuvered them again so that they were lying down, him on his back and her on her side as before, her face buried against his neck and shoulder, and simply held her as her sniffles evolved into sobs and she cried a bit.  He’d never done that before for anyone and it was an odd mix of feelings.  He felt awkward, but lots of men did in a situation like this, he imagined.  He felt uneasy.   He wasn’t used to being around someone crying: not someone he had to try and comfort. He’d made plenty of people cry in his life and hadn’t been very concerned about it.  It was all temporary.  They’d be fine.  He had a case to solve.  That’s how he’d always rationalized it.

Molly was different.  She meant something to him.  And even without Moriarty pulling his strings, he’d have felt obligated to do… something.  The fact that he was being manipulated like a puppet made comforting Molly both easier and harder.  And the final feeling, compassion, wasn’t something he’d had this much of before John.  John and his frequent biting reminders of **timing** and **not good** and could he at least **try** not to be a **machine**.  And Molly, too, reminding him of his humanity.  The **horrible things** he always said.  **Every time.  Always.**  

No.  Not always.  Not tonight. 

She stopped crying after about three minutes, wiping her eyes with her fingers.  “Thank you,” she said with a sniff, then sniffed again.  “I know how hard that had to be for you.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled wanly.  “Comforting someone.   Being exposed to a big mess of emotions.”

“My reputation precedes me,” Sherlock said without humor.  “It’s fine, Molly.”

“But you -”

“Molly,” he interrupted gently—pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and handing it to her—“It’s fine.  Now dry your eyes and blow your nose.”

She thanked him and obeyed, feeling small and self-conscious blowing her nose in front of him, but it helped ease her stuffy head and the throbbing behind her eyes.  She carefully folded it when she was finished and put it in her pocket, stopping herself from telling him she’d wash it and give it back to him.  She doubted he was in desperate need of having it back.

She let her head fall back onto his shoulder with a sigh. 

“Have I ruined it?” he asked, bringing his right hand up to stroke her hair.

“Ruined what?”

“Our date.  I don’t think it’s either customary or advisable to bring one’s date to tears.”

Molly laughed.  “No.  You were perfect.”

“Perfect,” he repeated slowly.  “Molly, I am many things, but I am not perfect.”

“To me you are,” she said softly, moving to look up at him again.

Sherlock was strangely at a loss for words.  No one in his life had ever told him they thought he was perfect.  Not ever, and especially not with a look of adoration in their eyes.

She saw his confusion and smiled again.  “You could just say thank you.”

“Thank you,” he said, drawing out the ‘T’ as he’d done that day in the lab when she’d confused him.

She looked down.  “I’ve never told anyone the whole story,” she said, her tone sounding like a confession.  “Not even the police.  I told Lestrade the basics but not the details. I swore I would never talk about what had happened.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched slightly.  “You told me.”

She looked into his eyes, surprise evident on her face that he didn’t understand.  “You asked me to.”

“Surely other people-”

Molly shook her head.  “ **You** asked me to,” she said quietly, and now he understood.

“You’re not angry with me for it?  For causing you to cry?”

“You didn’t cause me to cry: he did.  The memory did, rather.  And no I’m not angry.  You… you are who you are, Sherlock.  I told you before: if I can’t accept that, I’ve got no business being with you.  And I don’t intend to stop being with you.  Moriarty or no Moriarty.”

The strength and resolution in her voice made him raise his eyebrows in surprise.  He gently turned her on her back and leaned over her, cupping her face in one hand and staring into her eyes, puzzlement plainly written in his.  “Who **are** you, Molly Hooper?” he asked, his voice a curious caress.

She managed not to giggle.  Instead, she reached a hand into his curly black hair and softly tugged his face down closer to hers, eyes sparkling with an inner light, her lips curved into a mischievous smile.

“Why don’t you kiss me and find out?”

As his mouth met hers, he felt her pulse speed up.

 As the kiss deepened, Sherlock felt his pulse speed up.

Definitely not ruined.

He nearly gasped as Molly traced the outline of his bottom lip with her tongue.

When she gently took said bottom lip between both of her lips and sucked on it, he heard a soft moan and was shocked to realize it had come from him.

Was this how kisses were meant to go? Where had she learned to kiss like this?

Practice, obviously, coupled with instinct.

From the way his body was responding, it seemed he had some instincts, too.

Desire.  Something he’d rarely tasted and never indulged in, save that one kiss years ago in uni. 

When he’d tasted desire in the past, he’d always run away from it.  He knew what it led to.  Clouded judgment, rampant emotions, brains changed by neurochemicals of lust and attachment.  He’d never wanted to be at the mercy of the sexual heptagon: testosterone, estrogen, adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin and vasopressin.  The lack of control, the lack of reason they brought was frightening.

Now here he was, at nearly nine at night, in a secluded area of Holland Park, making out with Molly and experiencing a neurotransmitter overload that was threatening to turn his finely tuned, sharper than steel brain into pudding.

He shouldn’t have been experiencing this.  He should have been above all this. But the only thing Sherlock Holmes was currently above was Molly Hooper, who was lying underneath him and kissing him and touching him and doing her best to turn him into a hormone-addled seventeen-year-old.

And somehow, despite everything Sherlock thought he knew about himself, she was succeeding.

He didn’t understand why he was having this alarming, fierce arousal. And it was all because of the sick whims of Jim Moriarty, criminal madman mastermind. Even worse was the fact that, because of said madman, he couldn’t do what he wanted: couldn’t pull away from Molly and run away, run to his Mind Palace and calm himself, get his body and mind back under control.  Moriarty’s words in the taxi came back with contemptible cruelty: _don’t fight it, Sherlock.  It’ll be easier for everyone if you just give in._

But how could he give in to this… this madness!

Sherlock was out of his depth and about to be out of control.   

He desperately wanted to stop kissing Molly.

He desperately did **not** want to stop kissing Molly.

The conflict was going to cause him more harm than making a choice.

Not that he had any real choice to make.

If he was the kind of man that didn’t care about other people’s lives, he wouldn’t have been there in the first place.

But he was.  And that was what kept him from being Moriarty.

Moriarty would never put himself in a position like this to keep people from dying.  He’d let them die and laugh about it.

The only people who helped Moriarty were the people he gave obscene amounts of money to.

There was no one Moriarty could go to for help simply because of who he was.

He, Sherlock, might be Moriarty in intellect, but he had something Moriarty did not and never would.

He had people like John, and Molly, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

He, too, counted.

Sherlock didn’t know how, when it was all over, he could properly convey to Molly the things he genuinely felt for her, had experienced with her.  But for her sake, for his, he would try.

For now, the surge of the passion was still beckoning to him, a tide whose pull he could no longer resist.  He jumped into the waters of his wanting, no longer afraid, knowing that he trusted Molly and that somehow this trust would keep him safe.

_Please…please…please don’t let me wake up and this all have been a dream._

That was the only thought that ran through Molly’s head.

Even though she knew it wasn’t, knew she wasn’t home in bed asleep, it felt like it.  This moment had the beautiful, serene quality that normally only happened in her dreams, when she was lucky enough to dream about him.  She couldn’t imagine being any happier: anything being more perfect than his body against hers and her mouth moving with his.

He wasn’t experienced: it was obvious though not in a horrible way like it had been with some men from her past.  But he more than made it for it in curiosity and enthusiasm.  He kissed her as though he was learning about her: learning about what she liked, how she liked it, and then imitating it.  Taking what she was doing to him and reflecting it back to her.  It was so sweet it made her heart ache, but she wanted more.  She wanted this to be for him.

She pulled back just enough to flick the tip of her tongue into one damp corner of his mouth, and a flash of pride and pleasure went through her as he moaned again, louder than before, and she felt a tremor ripple through him.  She felt him harden against her leg and gasped into his mouth, delirious with the knowledge that she had caused it.  She, little Molly Hooper, who everyone thought was so quiet and shy.  She was making Sherlock Holmes come undone.  The thought made her grin inside.  Well, they always said it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for…

His mouth caught hers again, harder this time, bolder and more demanding.  She gave him what he wanted with her kiss, her hands pushing aside his coat and her fingers slipping to the buttons of his shirt.  She didn’t even try to stop her fingers from shaking as she slowly unfastened the buttons and untucked his shirt, slid her warm palms against his bare skin and drew back a bit.

For what seemed like forever she looked at him: looked at her trembling hands resting on his chest.  She never, never thought she would see him like this, feel him like this.  It was so intense it almost made her want to cry from happiness.  He was so pale, but she knew that already from the fake autopsy and treating a cut after.  But so unbelievably beautiful.  She drew a ragged breath, struggling not to come undone.   How could she explain it?  He would think she was being an idiot, wouldn’t understand what it felt like to want to touch someone so badly you could die inside.  She wasn’t even sure how she’d managed to be bold enough to pull him down and kiss him, except from a strength born of long-buried desperation and longing.

“Molly?”

He was studying her: trying to decipher the expression on her face.  She shook her head, closed her eyes tightly, kissing him again, desperately, joyfully, her body and mind and heart floating up, up, so high into the sky she thought she might never come down again.

 She could feel the firm muscle and the near absence of hair beneath her touch.  She pressed her fingertips to him and glided her hands over him, ghosting his chest, pressing firmly on his nipples as though she was reading Braille, then pressing harder when he gasped.

His mouth was trailing kisses down her jaw, then her neck, pausing briefly each time as though figuring out if her skin tasted different at each place.  When he pressed his tongue against her carotid artery it was her turn to gasp, then she moaned when he placed the lightest of kisses at the base of her throat.  She pressed herself upward against him and the resulting heat enveloped them both.

Sherlock felt as though he was watching everything from outside of himself, as though it was a dream.  This wasn’t him.  And yet it was.  He was aching with need. Reason had deserted him: packed up its bags and fled, nowhere to be seen, and left him in the lion’s den.  He might as well have tried to stop an avalanche with an umbrella.

He hadn’t known what to expect when he kissed her.  She kissed him? He wasn’t sure anymore.  There was definitely a kiss, however.  Right.  When they’d kissed, he hadn’t known what to expect.  But whatever it was, it wasn’t this.  This… feeling.  This passion, this wanting.  Because it was her.  Not because it was her.  His body hurt and the primitive, instinctual part of him had shoved his higher reasoning ability aside and screamed that he had to Satisfy. This. Need. Now.  He was pure, unadulterated lust, and all he wanted was to have her. 

What stopped him was: 1.  This wasn’t the right time, and  2. This wasn’t the right place.  Moriarty was obviously saving their first time for something special.  And even if he hadn’t have issued his edict, Sherlock did not want his-their-first time to be in Holland Park with three of Mycroft’s men wandering around.  Call him old-fashioned, but even if he was going to be forced to do this, he still wanted it to be done properly.

The return of reason did not make it automatically make it easy to stop. But stop he did, pulling away to look down at her, her dark eyes opening and staring into his, both of them breathless and shaken.

“Sherlock?” Molly asked, confused and worried.

Sherlock blinked.  She seemed confused and worried.  Why was she confused and worried?

Oh.

He smiled to reassure her, pressing one last kiss to her lips.  “You do realize we are in the middle of a public park?” he asked wryly.

Molly blushed and laughed.  “Oh, yes.  I had, I had forgotten about that a bit.”

“A bit?” he smirked, sitting up and refastening his buttons.

“Well you were no better,” she shot back, sitting up and smoothing down her blouse and hair.

“True,” he said, carefully making himself presentable.  “Someone was distracting me.”

“Distracting **you**?  Sherlock Holmes?  That ‘someone’ must have been awfully good,” Molly teased.

He raised his eyebrows.  “Yes.”

She smiled.  Sherlock continued.  “Now, as you’ve got to be at work in the morning, perhaps we should get you home?”

She nodded and moved to help him gather everything up. 

Molly needed the loo before they left, and Sherlock waited outside the small public convenience building for her.  As soon as he calculated she couldn’t hear him, he walked away a bit and pulled out his mobile.  “Ring, ring,” he whispered into it.

The phone rang not ten seconds later.  He quickly pressed the button.  “Why?” he asked without preamble.

“Why what, hot lips?” Moriarty asked sweetly.

“Why did you want me to know it was Molly?  You hate admitting weakness, and not only have you, you told me who was responsible for it.”

“I told you we had to be on the same page: told you she counted.  I tell you so many helpful things, Sherlock.  But do you lis-ten,” Moriarty gloated.

“You have another reason.  A reason why you want me to know and a reason why you want me to fall in love with her. What is it all for?”

“Now that would be telling.  Another fantastic date, by the way.  I got a bit hot and bothered just imagining the two of you.  Woof.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock said angrily.

“I always knew you had it in you. And I knew Molly was special.  Pity you never did.  But then, I wouldn’t be able to play this marvelous game.”

“Stop,” Sherlock hissed.

“You felt it, didn’t you.  The ache.  The desire.  You wanted her.  Go on.  Say it.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

“ **Say** it,” Moriarty ordered viciously.

“I wanted her,” Sherlock said flatly.  “Happy?”

“Deliciously so.  Admitting it is the first step, Sherlock.  One down, three to go.”

“Three to go?  And then what?”

“And then the movie ends, silly.”

“How?” Sherlock asked sharply.  “How does it end?”

Moriarty laughed.  “Oh, Sherlock.  That’s another of your weaknesses.  Always wanting to skip ahead.  But not this time.  This time you’re going to go through the process and have the experiences.  Are you excited?”

“Excited is not the word,” Sherlock spat.

“Awww.  Now don’t be like that. I’ll give you another clue tomorrow. And tomorrow you ask Molly out again, remember?  For date number three-ee.”

Sherlock frowned.  There was some significance he was missing.  “What’s so special about the third date?”

Moriarty actually groaned.  “How can you be so… never mind.  The third date, my dear, is the traditional date for sex.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his throat went dry.  “You said it wasn’t quite time yet…”

“That was for tonight.  Of course it wasn’t.  Try to keep up, would you? Maybe your big brother should send you that book after all.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to this.

“Just think,” Moriarty whispered.  “Two more nights, and you’ll know.  You’ll know what sex is like.  It’s so good, Sherlock.  You’ve really been missing out.  I do it, Miss Adler does it, but you never have.  So unfair.  But soon.  Soon you’ll be a moaning mess, wrapped around Molly like a  sleek cat, with no rational thoughts.”

“No,” Sherlock said softly.  “Don’t do this.”

“Why are you begging?  You don’t beg, remember? Oh, sorry, forgot you can’t say that anymore after your fall.  Save the begging for Molly.”

“I can’t DO this,” Sherlock whispered, hating the pleading he heard in his own voice.

“Yes, you can.  End your suffering, Sherlock.  End Molly’s.  She’s loved you for so long and she’s hurt so much.  Make her happy just like in the movies.”

“Make her happy so you can kill her,” Sherlock said hollowly.  “What great incentive for me to **end** **our suffering**.”

Moriarty sighed.  “Ok, I wasn’t going to tell you anything yet, BUT.  Since you’re **so** worried, I will, so maybe you’ll feel better.  Play the game, and I promise you I won’t kill Molly.”

“Promise? You?” Sherlock laughed bitterly.

“When have I ever explicitly made you a promise, Sherlock?  I haven’t.  But I’m making you one now.”

“I don’t have a choice anyway, if I don’t want you blowing people up,” Sherlock said.

“Exactly.  Now pull yourself together and breathe your little sigh of relief that Molly is safe.  We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

The line went dead.  Sherlock pocketed his phone just as Molly emerged.

She moved to his side and smiled, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek.  “Are you ok?”

Sherlock nodded, looking down at her with a strangely serene smile.  “Yes.”

In the taxi he surprised her by putting his arms around her.  Not that she minded.  She’d snuggle against him anytime he wanted.  She felt warm and sated and so sickeningly happy.

“Turn the radio on, please,” Sherlock requested of the driver, and felt Molly smile against him.  He preferred silence or conversation in taxis, because he was usually thinking or talking about a case when he was in them.  But for this case, the opposite was true.  Moriarty had apparently hired out a taxi for everywhere Sherlock went where Molly was concerned, and music was a clue.  At least it wasn’t him driving this time. 

“Yes, sir,” the driver answered, and a few seconds later something with a slightly grinding, blues-ish guitar started to play.

 

_Time to take her home, her dizzy head, his conscience laden_

_Time to take a ride, it leaves today, no conversation_

_Time too way too long, too way too long, too way too long_

__Conversations kill..._ _

Molly had sung along with the entire song in a soft voice.  When it ended her turned to her.  “What was that song?”

“ _Big Empty_ by Stone Temple Pilots,” she replied.  “Did you like it?”

“In a way. I’ve never had much of a taste before for popular music, but lately it’s become of great interest to me,” he said.

She chuckled.  “It’s my fault.  I’m teaching you bad habits.  We’ll have to listen to some Brahms or Ravel to make up for it.  I’ll play some for you soon if you like.”

He swallowed hard.  “Yes.”

When they arrived at her flat and were standing outside her door, Molly looked up at him uncertainly.  “Would you like to come in?  I won’t be going to bed for another hour or two.”

He only nodded and let her lead him in.  Toby immediately raced over to them.

“Toby, this is Sherlock.  Be nice,” Molly said with a smile.  “I’m going to put the kettle on, all right?”

“Yes,” he said absently, watching Toby.

Toby came close and sniffed him, then sniffed him again.  Apparently he liked what he smelled, because he rubbed himself in circles around Sherlock’s legs.  Sherlock hesitantly reached down to pet him, and found the experience an oddly comforting one.  Toby’s fur was soft and fine and he began to purr.  It was rather soothing.

When the tea was ready they sat on the sofa and Molly turned on some classical music.  Vivaldi’s _L'autunno._   Sherlock smiled.  “ **The Four Seasons** were some of the first concertos I learned.”

Molly smiled.  “They’re excellent pieces.  Summer is my favorite.  Let me guess: yours is Winter.”

He inclined his head and sipped his tea.  “Well done.”

“Summer and winter,” Molly mused, sipping her own.  “Two opposites.  The evolution of life and the extinction of it.”

Sherlock put his cup down on the coffee table and studied her.  “But each has a purpose.”

She sat her own cup down and met his eyes.  “And together they’re part of a larger plan.  They not only complement each other, they need each other to exist.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension cracking the air like invisible lightning.

In ten seconds, they were a tangle of limbs, Vivaldi and tea forgotten.

There were many things he knew, and some things he thought he knew.  And then there were things he knew he didn’t know, and Sherlock Holmes was fine with that.  Finite hard drive space, after all.

But if anyone had asked him at that moment into which category this fell, he couldn’t have said.

He knew why he was kissing Molly.

He thought it was because he had to.

He didn’t know why he was enjoying it so much.

It was Moriarty’s doing, this little film, this act.  He was just the leading man, the pretender, playing a part on a stage built from a tournament of lies.  A carefully crafted performance, scripted with the best of intentions.

Then why did it feel real?

Because Moriarty had been right, again.  He **had** wanted Molly.  He wanted her then, and he wanted her now.  He couldn’t believe it, but he had to accept it. 

He could say it was simply biology.

His body was reacting to a stimulus.  If someone struck him (unlikely, but possible), he’d react.  If he ate a Dautil pepper (same thing), he’d react.  If an attractive woman was pressed against him in a rather tight fit on a sofa with her tongue in his mouth and her fingers trailing up and down his body, he’d react.

All true.  There was only one problem with that.

He’d wanted her just sitting on the sofa, before they’d even touched.

He’d felt that stirring of the air, that static charge, hover around him with The Woman.

Naturally, he had left it unacknowledged.

The Woman was extraordinary.  His attraction to her was mostly mental, with the spark of the mind transferring to the body.

Molly wasn’t like that.  But there were undeniably things about her that made her special.  Her gift and passion for music, her faith in him, her friendship no matter how horrid he’d been in the past.  The Woman was self-serving, capable of being cruel, murderous and uncaring.  She was on the wrong side of the code from him.  Molly was, in that sense, everything The Woman was not.

If he’d desired The Woman for her mind, what did he desire Molly for?

“Sherlock,” Molly whispered at that moment.

He moved out of his mind back into his body to discover that somehow he and Molly were both bare from the waist up and it stunned him into paralysis.  Had he been analyzing that long, or was she that quick?

She pressed against him again; her small breasts warm and soft against his chest, and his blood suddenly became an ocean, roaring deafening waves that pounded his head. Her hair caressed his shoulders as she leaned over him: it tickled him, whispered to his skin.  It was still strange to him, to see her with her hair undone. He’d only seen it that way at Christmas that year, when he’d gone to identify The Woman’s body.

“Sherlock?”

This time it was a question, and she didn’t sound happy.  Oh, dear.  What had he done?  His mind raced furiously.

John’s voice popped into his head.  “TIMING?”

Oh.  Right.  This was probably not the best time to be attempting to analyze, even if he was thinking about her in the process.

He felt her hand grasp him through his trousers, and suddenly trying to think was no longer a consideration.

Molly could tell his mind had wandered.

And she didn’t take offense… not completely.  She knew perfectly well with whom she was making out.  But she didn’t intend to let him keep retreating into that enormous brain of his.

So when she’d felt him wander off the second time, so to speak, she didn’t get angry.  She didn’t pout; she didn’t get up and whine about why was he a million miles away.

No, Molly Hooper had a bit more class than that, and a bit more of an understanding of how said man’s mind was.  So she asserted herself in the best way she knew how: the way that never failed to get the attention of any straight man with a pulse.

She grasped his penis through his trousers.

He gasped.

“Hello,” she purred.  “What have we here?”

If he’d been able to think, he might have given her a smart-arsed answer about how _as if she didn’t know_.  Or perhaps not.

As it was, he could only swallow.  Hard.

Her slim nimble fingers quickly worked the zip, and she slid her hand inside. Oh, the advantages of small hands!  Part of her could hear her mother shouting: “Molly Elizabeth Hooper!  You tart!”  But the other part heard his breath hitch, and, well, why would she want to hear her mum in her head when she could hear **that**?

Oh, yes.  Oh, God, yes.  There he was.

Hard and hot and weighty and smooth in her hand, rising up like a Valkyrie from a forest of soft curls, he felt like heaven.

Her other hand unbuckled his belt and undid his trouser button to give her better access.

“Molly,” he said, and she grinned at the rough edge in his voice.

She freed him from his boxers and stroked him, using every bit of finesse, skill and knowledge she had, and was rewarded when he moaned sharply and lifted his hips.  “Molly,” he gasped.

“Shh,” she ordered, pressing a hard kiss to his lips, squeezing him as she stroked until he moaned.  She swallowed his moan in her mouth, then pulled back to look at him.

His cheeks were flushed, pupils dilated, eyes wide and glittering.  She could almost see his pulse throbbing in his throat.  For the moment, she had his attention.

As Molly kissed her way slowly down his chest, Sherlock thought there was something he should say, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was, and there was a sudden rush of blood to his lower extremities again and his body hurt and he decided it was best just to stop trying to think of it.  The sensations were nearly too much for him to process so he closed his eyes to help narrow his concentration, forcing himself to steady his breathing a bit.

This would be why he never indulged.  So much emotion, so much feeling…it could consume him.  Moriarty hadn’t come out and said, but Sherlock had known when he’d said he knew Sherlock’s dirty little secret.  It wasn’t that he was incapable of passion, as so many people thought.  It was that he was capable of too much of it. He abstained out of choice so it didn’t overwhelm him.  And Moriarty, pretty as you please, had used the key and opened the door to his mind palace, had smashed through his sanctuary breaking all the china as he went.

Sherlock hated it.  Hated being at the mercy of anything, but emotion most of all.  It stripped him down, made him defenseless, took away the thing he valued most.  He felt helpless and angry even as his mouth made sounds of pleasure and his body burned.  He was being violated; it was against his will with coerced consent, with innocent Molly in the middle not as the originator but the cause, in the way that hurt him the most.

 _Well played, you bastard_ , he thought, just as she squeezed him again, wrenching another gasp from him.

He felt her lips on him and his eyes flew open in shock.

She met his gaze for a split second before her eyes closed and she drew his heat into the sweet coolness of her mouth.  And if he had nearly come undone from her touch of her hand, he was now about to be completely destroyed. 

He felt as though he was holding a live wire.  He couldn’t keep holding it, but neither could he let it go.

Her soft lips moved up and down, slowly, and she increased her speed in finite increments, tight around him and dear God, he had never felt such primal bliss.  Not even the cocaine had given him this singular sort of pleasure wrapped within obliterating torment.  She played him like he was an instrument and she was giving a concert in ecstasy. He closed his eyes again as a soft sigh escaped him.

Part of him wanted to fight it, but he knew it would be useless.  He was past the point of resisting anything.  His ticket had been bought and his bag packed, and there was nothing left for him to do but get on board and let it ride.

So Sherlock moaned, and arched against her, and when his climax came he gasped her name, trading his despair for delirium because pleasure was preferable to pain.  He released himself into her mouth as she pulled the final notes from him, no longer in rhythm but **a piacere** , ending the symphony that had waited a lifetime to be played with the crazed beating of his heart.

When he slowly spiraled down from the hormonal high and his blood began to redistribute itself from his groin to his brain, he opened dazed eyes to find Molly pressing a kiss to his hip, looking at him with a wicked smile on her lips and a spark in her eyes.

“I like second dessert,” she told him, and he laughed.

“If I tell you that was amazing, will it sound too cliché?” Sherlock asked.

“I like a bit of cliché now and then,” she said, moving up to lay half on top of him, half pressed against the front of the sofa.

“Good, because I’m not entirely sure I’m up to original thought just yet,” he said, wrapping his arms around her as she buried her face into the side of his neck.

Molly giggled slightly.  “Now you know what all the shouting is about.”

“That was beyond shouting.  That was a deafening chorus.”

She moved to look down into his face.  “I’m glad you liked it.”

He raised his eyebrows.  “You mean there are men who don’t?”

“Most do.  But no, not all.”

“I find that incredible.  How could a man not like that?  That was like solving a decade-old triple homicide.”

Molly burst into laughter.  “Sherlock Holmes, you are the only man I have ever known who would compare an orgasm from oral sex to solving a homicide!”

“A decade-old triple homicide,” he corrected, and grinned as she stuck her tongue out at him.

Her humor faded and she reached a hand out to brush his hair away from his forehead. 

“Sherlock, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea with this, but… it might be a good time for us to have a talk.”

Thankfully, in this instance, Sherlock was Sherlock, and the words “have a talk” didn’t cause him to freak out.  “All right.”

Molly glanced down, and despite everything she’d done to him already that evening she blushed a bit.  “I know you’ve never…. that you’re not used to all this.  And I kind of, well… accosted you earlier. But I want you to know, as far as… actual sex goes, we can take it as slowly as you need to.”

He blinked in surprise.  She went on.

“Normally I wouldn’t do…what I did… with a man so soon.  But we’ve known each other for years, and we’re friends…”

“Molly, if you’re worried that I think you’re the Whore of Babylon on the side, the answer is no,” Sherlock told her wryly.

“No, thank you, but no, it’s not that. It’s… well… things are moving along really well with us, and I think we should discuss this now, before we get to that point.”

“Oh,” he said faintly. 

“I want you to know that I’m clean; I test myself at the lab twice a year. I can show you my records  if you want to see them…”

“That’s not necessary.  I trust you.”

She glanced down again.  “Ok, thank you.  Also, I’m, ah, I’m on birth control, have been for years.  It really does help with the hormones.”

“Naturally,” he agreed.  “So… what you’re telling me is…”

“From STI and pregnancy perspectives, we can have sex anytime we’re ready, on my side.”  She paused and looked at him as though waiting for him to say something.

Sherlock frowned.  What was she asking?  She knew that he was a virgin, so no STI’s to worry about.  She was on something, most likely a pill or implant knowing Molly as he did.  So what did that leave?

Oh.

“I have never shared a needle in my life, and it has been… a while… since I did any drugs,” he told her.  “If it will make you feel better, however, I’m fine with you testing me at Bart’s.”

Molly shook her head.  “No.  I trust you, too.  I figured you were smarter than that, but… it’s always best to be completely sure.”

“I understand,” he assured her.

There was a pause between them; a pause that grew thick and lingered like a fog. 

“You saw the marks,” he said.  “When you had me in the morgue for the fake autopsy.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never treated me any differently because of it.”

“Why would I?  You’re too smart to be a junkie. Anyway, I’m no one to judge you.”

He looked up at her, into her dark eyes, so earnest and accepting, and felt a sudden, horrible, unexpected stab of guilt.  He deduced people almost as often as he breathed, and with his deductions came conclusions, and judgments.  It was nothing he planned and nothing he could control.  It was just him.  And here she was, looking at him with the same love she’d always had for him, not caring if he’d shot himself full of cocaine or eaten meth for breakfast.

He’d always thought he was superior to pretty much everyone else.  But there was more to superiority than intelligence.  He didn’t like this realization, but disliking something never made it less true.

He took her face in his hands and sighed.  “I’m reasonably certain that I don’t deserve you, Molly Hooper,” he told her, brushing his lips against hers.

“Lucky for you that I’m a glutton for punishment, then,” she said, and grinned as he laughed.

She kissed him and sighed.  “As much as I enjoy this, I do have to go back to work in the morning.”

He nodded, watching in fascination as she put his clothing to rights, then moved off him to stand up and stretch.  He stood up as well, feeling odd for some reason.  It took him a moment to identify it.  She hadn’t **really** pushed anything.  Hadn’t stripped him, or herself, naked: was sending him home and hadn’t even asked for anything from him.  He wasn’t sure what he thought of it.

“Molly…”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t…” he halted, uncertain as to how to express what was in his head.

She smiled.  “It’s fine.  I wanted tonight to be for you.”

“Oh.”

She smiled again, reaching up to kiss him.  “There’s plenty of time for that.”

 _No, there isn’t,_ he thought, but of course he couldn’t tell her that.  Instead he said: “I’d like to come by Bart’s tomorrow and see you.”

“I’d like that too,” she told him.

He put on his coat and scarf and called for a taxi.  When he closed his phone back up, Molly slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his neck and chest.

Oh.  She was feeling… huggy?  Cuddly?  He wasn’t quite sure what to call it, but obliged her by embracing her and resting his chin on the top of her head. 

It was… not unpleasant.

He leaned down to kiss her, a slow, gentle kiss intended to affirm, not incite, and she sighed happily when it ended.  He realized she’d been happier in the past few days than in the rest of the time he’d known her put together, and there was no need to deduce that he was the reason.

The bruises on her face were almost healed, and her back would be fine in a few more weeks.  Both of these things paled in comparison to the scars he was probably going to be forced to figuratively leave on her heart.  It angered and sickened and yes, saddened him somewhat to think about it.  Which was why he tried not to.

The taxi honked the horn, and they walked to the door together.  “Thank you, Molly. I had a … delightful time,” he said with a grin.

She smirked a bit.  “So did I.  I’ll see you tomorrow, then.  Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Molly,” he said softly, giving her one last brief kiss before he left.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's Love," by King's X, copyright 1990. "Charlotte Sometimes" by the Cure, copyright 1981.
> 
> The line about angels is derived from the song "Sea Breezes," originally by Roxy Music, remade by Siouxsie & the Banshees. "But even angels they make the same mistakes in love."
> 
> "A Noiseless Patient Spider" is a poem by Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass, 1867.
> 
> "Big Empty" by Stone Temple Pilots, copyright 1994 Atlantic Records


	13. Stripped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty leaves a clue, Sherlock and Molly have their first argument, and they make a major change in their relationship.

On his way home he got a text from Moriarty.  _Was it as good for you as it was for me?_

Sherlock fought down his anger. He'd known as long as they hadn't had actual intercourse Moriarty would be fine with whatever happened. More than fine, actually. He expected more taunting, but the one message was all he received. He supposed Moriarty considered it was enough. As far as he was concerned, it had been  **more**  than enough. Too much.

At home there was milk, bacon, beans, cereal, orange juice, bread and… strawberry jam in the fridge and cupboards. Since when did John eat strawberry jam? And why were there all these breakfast items? Was John planning on cooking them a big breakfast? He knew Sherlock didn't eat much…

A note on the counter.  _At Mary's. Back late. John._

Hardly a surprise. But all the food. What…

Oh.

Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. He just wasn't entirely sure of when the "later" would be. Not tonight, from the note, but maybe the next night?

At that moment John came in, a smile on his face and a spring in his step despite it being eleven at night. "Evening, Sherlock," he greeted.

"It is indeed evening," Sherlock replied. "I see you've been shopping."

"What? Oh, yeah: stocking up, you know. Not everyone likes to go without food for days at a time."

"That's rather a lot of stocking up," Sherlock said mildly, and John glanced down.

"Yeah, about that. Um… right. The thing is…"

"You want to have Mary over to spend the night."

John nodded. "Yes. I wanted to coordinate with you on that."

Sherlock shrugged. "It makes no difference to me what morning your romantic life interrupts my work."

"Charming. Mary's so looking forward to meeting you, too," John said with a bite in his tone.

Sherlock looked up, surprised. "Is that what this is about?"

"Well, sort of… bloody hell. Look, Mary has some friends who'll be in town soon, and she told them they could use her place for the weekend. So-"

"So you offered to let her stay here," Sherlock finished.

"I mentioned that maybe she could. I wanted to ask you first. She can go to a hotel, but it just seemed like a waste when she and I are getting more… involved."

"It's fine," Sherlock said. "When has it ever not been fine with me for you to have a woman over?"

John gave him a look.

Sherlock sighed.

"Look, Mary is… important to me, okay? And so are you. I really want you two to get along-"

"Will she be speaking at all while she's here?" Sherlock interjected wryly.

"So please, for my sake,  **try**  to be…"

"Not myself with her?"

"Just a bit."

"I'll see what I can do."

John sighed.

"What? That is a perfectly reasonable answer."

"Yeah, from you I suppose it is. Thank you," John said.

Sherlock nodded.

"How was your date with Molly?" John asked.

"It was… good."

John laughed. "You're deliberately being vague again."

"Am I?"

"You know you are. So that means…" John looked him over and his eyes widened. "Bloody hell."

"What?"Sherlock asked.

John grinned. "Sherlock Holmes. I wasn't sure you had it in you. Congratulations."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked in exasperation.

"You. You and Molly were naughty tonight." John leaned back against the wall and smirked at Sherlock's utter confusion.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock asked, completely baffled and feeling like the tables had been turned in some grand injustice of the universe.

"Not telling." John's smirk grew bigger.

"Oh, come off it. You have to tell me. I always tell you."

"Nope. I'm going to let you figure this one out yourself."

Sherlock exhaled loudly in exasperation. "Fine."

"Thank you for confirming it, though," John added, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Anyway, what are your plans for tomorrow? Seeing Molly again?"

Sherlock nodded. "She goes back to Bart's for morning shift. I told her I'd stop by. And… I think Moriarty is going to give me another clue tomorrow."

John frowned. "Why do you think that?"

"Because he likes interspersing them with my dates."

John shook his head. "Right. Well, I can help out if you need."

"Yes. As soon as I know what he's done we'll start."

John frowned. "Sherlock… what's he playing at? He hasn't killed anyone, abducted anyone, hasn't blown anything up… that worries me more than anything else. Not what he's doing, but what he hasn't done."

"I'm sure he's done a lot of things that you don't know about," Sherlock said, giving John The Look.

"Yeah. You're probably right. But do you know what he's up to?" John asked, returning the Look.

"I have my suspicions," Sherlock said softly.

"What are you going to do about it?"

Sherlock glared at him. "What am I going  **to do**  about it? What the hell do you think? I'm going to stop him, that's what! What kind of asinine question was that?"

"Okay, take it easy," John said, raising his hands slightly. "God, you've been so tetchy the past few days. Everything okay with Molly?"

"You've obviously deduced that  **something**   **happened**  tonight, so equally obviously, Molly and I are fine," Sherlock said frostily.

"Jesus. Calm down. Have you been…"

"No," Sherlock said flatly.

John opened his mouth again.

"And no to that as well," Sherlock stopped him.

"Fine."

They both looked down for a moment. Sherlock sighed.

"This is all new to me, John. Feelings: well, allowing them. Not divorcing myself from them. It's a bit overwhelming at times."

John nodded. "I understand what you're saying."

Sherlock was grateful John hadn't said "I know how you feel," because obviously he couldn't. He couldn't understand it all himself.

"I'm off to bed," John told him. "See you in the morning?"

Sherlock nodded. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to cook breakfast for us tomorrow?"

John blinked.

"Well, you want to practice, don't you?"

John laughed. "I know how to cook, Sherlock. But I'll make us some breakfast. It's nice to see you hungry and eating more like a normal human being."

Sherlock frowned slightly, but nodded. "Good. Good night, John."

"Night, Sherlock. Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to remind Molly to fasten your zip all the way up next time," John said with a huge, shit-eating grin. Then he turned and left Sherlock to glance down, swear, and pull his zip up the rest of the way, John's laughter echoing in the hall.

Once John was gone, Sherlock went to his box of chocolates. He opened it and took a chocolate cream out. He bit into it and held it up to the light, turning it, but saw nothing unusual. He ate it, then sat and thought.

He ate seven more pieces, mixing up the flavors, struggling with the sweetness and sugar a bit, but he got them down. Twice as many at one time as he had been eating, and a combination instead of just one flavor at a time as he'd been doing.

Then he fetched a small evidence bag and put two pieces inside it, and put the bag in his coat.

_Let's see what that does._

He hid them again and went to bed.

Molly Hooper was, for the most part, always a sensible woman.

She didn't spend all her free nights in bars, getting sloppy pissed, shagging strange men only to regret it in the morning. She didn't spend countless hours planning her dream wedding, or trying on sexy slutty dresses in department stores. She knew who she was, and usually she was fine with that. With being regular, plain Molly.

But she wasn't that woman now, not exactly. She was the woman Sherlock Holmes was taking out on dates, was passionately kissing, was coming downright unhinged with (thank you, previous boyfriends and the book Shelia Wensley loaned her at age sixteen) and she had never felt so gloriously  _female_  and powerful in her life.

So when she'd gotten ready for work that morning, she had made just a  _few teensy changes._

Just to reflect her happiness, of course.

Her hair was swept up, with two slim wavy tendrils hanging down, one on each side of her face.

She had looked at all the jumpers and trousers and simply shaken her head.

She had chosen a long loose black skirt and a fitted dark purple top.

She'd added diamond drop earrings, a smidge of purple shadow and a shiny sleek coat of the lipstick she'd worn on their first date.

When she'd looked in the mirror, she'd grinned.

Once at Bart's, she'd all but sauntered in, ignoring the curious looks and a few admiring ones.

She pulled out her iPod, earbuds, and her first corpse.

She flipped to a remix of "Not Myself Tonight" and picked up a scalpel.

Today was going to be a fantastic day.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock burst into the morgue. "Molly, I need…"

He stopped when he saw her.

She was beautiful.

She smiled at him with warmth and a hint of mischief. "You need what?" she whispered, walking over to him.

How could he even have considered fighting how she made him feel?

He didn't want to fight it.

The only way to rid oneself of temptation was to yield to it.

He was yielding.

"You," he whispered back, pulling her against him.

His mouth found hers, hot and demanding.

Moriarty was forgotten. Reason was forgotten.

He had to have her. Right there, right now.

He pulled away long enough to lock the doors and turn off the lights. The only glow in the room came from light through the small windows in the doors.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

He pulled her against him again, lips finding her neck and biting the tender flesh, and she moaned. He pulled her back to an autopsy table and gently eased her down onto it.

He stripped off her knickers, then freed himself from his trousers, as fast as his shaking hands would allow.

He moved to lie on top of her and she wrapped herself around him.

They both gasped as he entered her, slowly pushed into her.

He began moving with her, both of them sighing and moaning as arms and tongues and lips tangled.

He wanted more and more of her, couldn't assuage the drive growing in him fast enough.

She cried out his name softly, hoarsely, her entire body clamping down on his, her shaking and spasms too much for him to withstand. He moaned against her neck.

He was on the brink of exploding.

"Sherlock?"

He continued moving within her, not caring about anything else.

"Sherlock?"

Her saying his name excited him more, made him moan again. He wanted to unravel her, make her scream…

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock gasped and wrenched himself awake.

He discovered that he was sweating, heart pounding, pulse throbbing…

And that the world's only consulting detective had just had an orgasm in his sleep.

And John Watson was beating on his door.

"Sherlock! Answer me, are you okay?"

"Yes," he managed to gasp out. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You were moaning pretty loud…"

"I am FINE!" Sherlock all but shouted.

"All right, all right," John answered. Sherlock heard his footsteps retreat, heard John mutter "some people are so tetchy… not naming any names, mind…"

After John left, as Sherlock's heartbeat began to stabilize, his eyes widened in amazement.

He hadn't had a nocturnal orgasm since he was a teenager.

He tentatively reached down and slipped a hand inside his pajama bottoms.

Yes, no mistaking it. Orgasm. He was wet and slick and a musky sweet odor rose to his nostrils.

Bloody hell.

Thirty-seven years old and having a… what did most people call them? Oh, yes: a wet dream.

It was an apt description.

The insane thing was, just remembering the dream made him impossibly start to harden again.

His fingers twitched where he was touching himself.

His heart was trying to decide whether or not to speed up.

It would be so easy. He was already a mess thanks to the dream: what difference would a little more make?

He was supposed to be learning about sex. Wasn't he going to be having sex with Molly that very next night? Why not learn a bit about his body now, before that happened? Moriarty was making him do it all. None of it was under his control. Why struggle against it? Why not let himself go, yield to the urge, experience the hunger and pleasure of the flesh?

His fingers trembled. His entire body trembled. He was nearly hard and very hot and it hurt and he didn't want to hurt.

It would be so easy.

No.

He couldn't.

If he did this now, he was letting Moriarty win on an entirely different level.

He knew what he was going to have to do with Molly. That was one thing.

But to let himself fall into this particular abyss would be crossing a line that Sherlock did not want to cross.

His suspicions had been confirmed to an extent. He'd learn the full truth when he got to the lab and analyzed the chocolates.

He gently withdrew his hand and just lay in bed getting himself under control as much as possible. His indulgence last night had definitely kicked things up a notch. More than one, actually. And he was going to see Molly for real later. And he had to eat more chocolates this morning. And his body was still aching and he didn't know how long he could stand it.

The phone seemed to be mocking him even though it was silent.

"No," he snapped at it.

There was only one thing for it.

Sherlock got out of bed and went to take a shower.

A very cold shower.

When he got out and dressed and went into the living room, he heard John in the kitchen cooking.

His phone beeped. Text.

_Saving yourself for your girlfriend, fuzzy lumpkin? Soooo adorable._

He snapped the phone shut and curled up on the sofa to think.

John Watson had known Sherlock Holmes for nearly three years.

In all that time, with the exception of Irene Adler, Sherlock had shown no sexual interest in anyone, of any sort.

John had, at one insane point at the pool when they'd first encountered Moriarty, had the horrible, crazy urge to tell Sherlock and Moriarty that one of them should climb on top of the other and get it over with.

This was completely different.

Now here Sherlock was dating Molly, doing…. something with Molly, and...well. Either Sherlock had had a wet dream or he'd been beating one off. And maybe he was being forced to be involved with Molly somehow, but John didn't think what he'd heard earlier was because of coercion.

After walking away from Sherlock's door, John had figured out exactly what that moaning sounded like. He was no Sherlock Holmes, but he knew the sounds of sex when he heard them.

It was embarrassing. But amusing.

And crazy.

What did one do, exactly, after hearing one's best friend and formerly asexual flatmate moaning like that?

Apparently, if one was John Watson, and the flatmate was Sherlock Holmes, you started cooking breakfast.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, with Sherlock scanning headlines for any further signs of Kitty Riley snooping and John trying to decide whether or not to say anything about, well, anything.

Finally he couldn't take it any longer.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock blinked. "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well you've been a bit…"

"Tetchy, I believe is the word you've used twice now?"

"Yes, that, and…"

"And what?" Sherlock's voice was soft but his eyes said  _I don't think you'll do it._

"Nothing," John replied.

Silence.

"I mean, there's nothing wrong with it," John began, and Sherlock groaned.

"It's perfectly normal to have a sex drive," John continued.

"Thank you, John, now I won't lie awake sleepless again tonight agonizing over that," Sherlock said.

"I just don't want you to be embarrassed."

"I'm not embarrassed. If anyone is embarrassed, it's you."

"Me? I'm not embarrassed."

"Good. Now could we please stop having this discussion?"

"Of course," John said agreeably.

"Fine."

Silence.

"I could give you a couple of websites if you want…"

Sherlock flung the paper down and glowered before stomping off.

"You're welcome for the breakfast!" John called after him.

Silence.

John grinned. Teasing Sherlock about sex was wrong, maybe, but it was so much fun.

Molly had finished her first autopsy and was about to start her second one.

She pulled the man out and removed the covering.

She looked down at his body.

It took everything in her not to scream.

When she was able to think again, she called Lestrade.

Then she sent Sherlock a text.

This man was an ex-boyfriend from about five years ago.

And he had "S&M" carved in his chest.

Right above his heart.

Molly didn't have to be Sherlock to know it was a clue.

A very bad clue.

Sherlock had just finished sneakily eating two more chocolates and putting the box away when his phone suddenly blared into song.

"Kiss, kiss, Molly's lips!"

Then it went silent.

He stared at it in surprise. Then sighed. Moriarty had evidently decided to take a page from The Woman's book. Or had she taken a page from his?

He opened the phone. Yes. Text from Molly.

_Get to Bart's. Now. I need you. Molly_

His eyes widened as he remembered his dream. He felt oddly flush and was unsure of how to respond. They couldn't yet, even though his body was more than up to it and even now tried to convince him to act on it. How to handle this? Perhaps the teasing, flirty way was best.

_Shouldn't we wait until the third date? ;) SH_

John walked in a moment later and looked around, puzzled. "Did you hear something? I thought I heard..."

"Kiss, kiss, Molly's lips!"

"That?" Sherlock inquired evenly.

"Yeah. That."

_Not THAT way. Body. It's got a message on it. Molly_

Sherlock felt his adrenaline surge.

_On our way. SH_

John frowned, noticing the look on Sherlock's face. "What's going on?"

"Moriarty. He's sent Molly a little gift and me a clue. Let's go."

John sighed. "At least we got to eat breakfast."

Sherlock looked pensively out the taxi window. It seemed their luck had run out as far as no one being murdered by Moriarty. He'd texted Molly for more details, but she hadn't replied. Which meant one of several things. None of them were serious, so he wasn't worried about that.

"It's fucked up, isn't it?" John murmured.

Sherlock turned sharply to look at him. "What?"

"Moriarty. You finally decide to get a girlfriend and she happens to be the woman who saved your life, and he's probably got it in for the both of you."

"Molly's not my girlfriend," Sherlock snapped, remembering Moriarty's snide jab.

John blinked. "O…k. Then what is she?"

"She's," Sherlock began, and fell strangely silent.

John stared. Sherlock, at a loss for words? Not for the first time that week did John wonder exactly what was going on, and it certainly would not be the last.

"She's someone who is possibly in danger, that's who she is," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Right. That's why you've seen her almost every day for the past six days and came home with your hair mussed and your zip half up. Protecting her. Yes. Very noble of you."

Sherlock shot him a glare, then blinked. "Did you say six days?"

"Yeah. Molly was attacked six days ago. Is that important?"

"Yes."

"In what way?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Tomorrow makes a week."

"Right."

"A week since it all started."

"Yes."

"And tomorrow is…"

John frowned, piecing as many pieces together as he could but still not sure. "Your third date?" he hazarded the guess.

"Yes. But that's not all."

"What am I missing?"

"What happened in a week, John? What is the best known event of all time to take place in exactly one week?"

John pondered it. "God made the world?" he asked.

"Nice one. Yes," Sherlock whispered.

"So, what, Moriarty's made some new world for you? For you and Molly?"

"Yes."

"But what does it mean? God creating the world was a good thing, Sherlock. And Molly is a good thing. Moriarty isn't good. He doesn't do anything that is remotely good."

"Oh, John," Sherlock sighed, turning back to the window. "Even a demon can long for Heaven."

Lestrade was waiting in the morgue when Sherlock arrived, John having decided he wanted some coffee even though they'd just had breakfast and had headed to the canteen. Sherlock knew that was code for "I really want to talk to Mary," but let it slide.

Sherlock strode towards the body. "Where's Molly? And why didn't you phone me as soon as you arrived on the scene?"

Lestrade stared. "I'm sorry, did you become a police officer while I wasn't looking? Sherlock, I don't have to call you every time someone is murdered. I  **am**  a Detective Inspector, you know."

"Oh? With no clues, no weapon, no murderer? How far did you think you were going to get on your own?" Sherlock asked. "Now, where is Molly?"

"She went to get something to run an analysis with. Look, Sherlock, I don't mind this thing with you and Molly: I'm glad for you, honestly. But it's  **my**  job to contact you if, and when, I think it's necessary. You shouldn't just get invited here by your girlfriend."

"She is NOT my girlfriend!" Sherlock snapped. "Why does no one understand that Molly Hooper is not, in fact, my girlfriend!"

He stopped, alarmed at the sudden outburst, the anger and fear he'd just heard in his own voice. Lestrade, amazingly, wasn't looking at him but over his shoulder. Sherlock turned around…

And saw said non-girlfriend staring at him through the open door, a stricken look on her face.

"I need to go get some things for a tissue sample," Molly said quietly. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

When she left, Sherlock slowly turned to see Lestrade looking at him with a mixture of disgust and irritation.

"Nice going, genius," Lestrade said dryly.

"This doesn't concern you, Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"Maybe not, but Molly is my friend, and for some stupid reason so are you. Look. I don't know if you're scared, or if someone pissed in your cornflakes or what. But what I do know is that that woman is over the moon for you, and no matter what she is or is not in your eyes, she thought differently and you've just hurt her feelings. Now, I'm going to go get some coffee, and maybe a doughnut, and I'll be back in fifteen minutes. Which I should not be doing right now, but God help me, I want to  **help**  you. So stop being such a git and sort it out, yeah?"

Lestrade left, Sherlock staring after him in amazement.

His phone beeped.

_Fix this. Whatever it takes. And then keep your fucking mouth shut._

Sherlock sighed. If Moriarty was swearing, he was truly angry. Now three people were upset with him, and as soon as Lestrade told John what had happened he'd have four. Maybe he should just get Anderson and Donovan over as well, while he was at it, and make an official  _I'm Pissed Off at Sherlock_  club.

He wasn't sure why he'd reacted so strongly to Molly being called his girlfriend. Well, other than the fact that all this was a game of Moriarty's, it was happening so fast, it reminded him that something bad was going to happen eventually, he felt manipulated and trapped, and he had been drugged by a currently unknown substance or two for the past three days.

No reason.

And he also felt afraid. Because he knew his own dirty little secret, even though Moriarty knew it too. The thing he had just started to realize and could just barely admit to himself. The impossible, insane thing that he couldn't fully explain, chocolate or no chocolate.

He had some level of… feelings for Molly he'd never known he could have.

He didn't have time to analyze it at the moment. He had to figure out what to say to Molly, and fast.

When she came back in a few minutes later, she made a point of not looking at him. She walked past him as if he didn't exist and put her supplies down.

He sighed. "Molly…"

"You don't have to say anything. Probably better if you didn't, actually," she told him coolly.

"Molly, what I said-"

"You don't owe me an explanation," she said, voice going from cool to cold. "I mean, it's not like I'm your girlfriend or anything."

"No, you're not," he agreed softly, walking over to her. "But that doesn't mean you couldn't be, someday, does it?"

She sighed. "Sherlock…"

"I am afraid, Molly. There's your explanation. I have never in my life felt for anyone exactly what I feel for you. I think about you, I dream about you, I smell you on my clothes after I'm with you and quite frankly I am a bit terrified of this."

She stared at him with wonder in her wide eyes. "But… you know I… how I feel about you. You know I'd never try to hurt you or scare you."

"Yes. I do know that. But that doesn't stop it. I feel so much, Molly. It overwhelms me. It amazes me. I don't know how to deal with it, don't understand how people can cope with all these things and not get pulled under by them."

She glanced down. "Do… do you want to stop this? Is it too much?"

He tipped her head up with one hand and put his arm around her. "No. I don't. But apparently there are going to be side effects, one of which is me going a bit mental. I am sorry I hurt you. Believe me, Molly, hurting you is the last thing I want to do."

She nodded.

"There are probably going to be more times when I'll to ask your forgiveness," he went on. "Just… don't give up on me. I know I can be a thoughtless git, but I do care for you. I don't want to lose you."

Molly smiled at him. "You won't. As long as you talk to me like you just did, you won't."

Sherlock smiled back. "You look lovely, by the way. Dressing up for anyone special?"

"Me, myself… and maybe you."

"Maybe?" Sherlock asked.

"Well that depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you're going to kiss me or not."

He slipped his other arm around her, bent his head to hers and kissed her, letting himself simply enjoy the feel and smell and taste of her without trying to analyze anything, to see if he could. It was hard. Very hard. But he finally succeeded in the battle enough to lose himself in the kiss.

The sound of a cough at the door caused them to break the kiss, but Sherlock didn't move. He even tightened his arms around Molly. "Yes, John? Detective Inspector?" he asked mildly.

"Sherlock, Molly, I'm glad you made up and you're the new murder mystery power couple, but if you're finished snogging, we have a body over here that needs looked at?" Lestrade reminded pointedly.

Molly giggled and Sherlock smirked. "Certainly, Detective Inspector," he answered nicely, releasing Molly so they could walk over to the table. Lestrade muttered something about "snogging in a morgue" and "obviously made for each other" and then just huffed a bit.

John just stared. Then finally, when Sherlock glanced at him, he smiled.

It was madness, total madness.

And Moriarty aside, John couldn't have been happier.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Molly's Lips," by Nirvana, copyright 1991, Sub Pop Records


	14. Who Will Save Your Soul?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New discoveries, jealousy, and Sherlock makes a bold bargain with Moriarty.

"Right," Sherlock said crisply, staring down. "The victim-"

"Is my boyfriend," Molly said, then winced as Sherlock and John stared. "No, sorry: I mean, he used to be my boyfriend. About five years ago."

"Well that rather puts things in a different light," Sherlock murmured. "Tell me your history with him," he said to Molly as he started slowly walking around, examining and deducing.

"We… we met at a hospital fundraiser. He asked me out; we started dating, dated for probably about six months."

"And then he ended it," Sherlock murmured, still looking at the body.

Molly couldn't help but bristle a bit. "How do you know he…"

"Am I wrong?"

"No, but…"

"Molly, do you really want to have this conversation in front of John and Lestrade?" Sherlock asked wryly, though not in a mean way.

"Is it relevant?" Lestrade asked, frowning.

"No," Sherlock said. "What  **is**  relevant, however, is the fact that it is one of Molly's ex-boyfriends, and the letters that are carved over the heart."

He looked up at her finally. "When's the last time you saw this man?"

"His name is…was…Alden Wodehouse, and it was three days ago."

"You saw an ex-boyfriend three days ago and didn't tell me?" Sherlock asked incredulously. This made him feel something, something he wasn't used to feeling… oh. Damn.

"It was a chance meeting. I didn't ring him up or anything, Sherlock. Besides, I'm not your girlfriend, remember?" she asked, still a bit hurt even though she'd forgiven him. Then she frowned. "Hang on: are you jealous?"

"Of course I'm not jealous," he retorted.

"Because you're acting jealous," Molly told him.

"I'm  **not**  jealous," Sherlock said irately.

"Actually, you  **are**  acting a bit jealous," John said, nonplussed, and Sherlock scowled at him.

"People!" Lestrade snapped. "The case, please?"

"So you saw this man three days ago. And now he's dead. How many more ex-boyfriends do you have that are still in London?" Sherlock asked Molly.

Molly frowned. "Two, that I know of. But would they be in danger?"

"Why was Alden Wodehouse in danger?"

"I don't know. I…oh!" Molly exclaimed. "I don't know if this means anything, but he…when I saw him, it was the day after I got home. At the store. We chatted a bit, he told me I looked nice… that was about the end of it, though."

"You looked nice, with bruises on your face? He was flirting because he thought you were vulnerable. Maybe that was the end of it as far as you were concerned, but not Moriarty," Sherlock said. "He had reason to suspect this man was going to try and pursue you, and he didn't like it."

"But why?" Lestrade asked.

"Maybe he doesn't want me to have any competition for Molly's affections."

"But he wasn't… you don't… I mean, why would he care? And how did he know? You had just asked me out the night before! We hadn't gone on our date yet!" Molly exclaimed, bewildered.

"Yeah, Sherlock, why? How?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know yet. He could also be getting rid of all your exes for some reason."

"Why would he do THAT?" Molly gasped.

"Again, I'm not sure yet. I need you to run some tests. Toxicology, the whole bit. I want to know for certain what the cause of death was."

John blinked. "Sherlock, he was shot. One good clean shot."

"Yes, but I need to know if he was already dead before he was shot. The wounds from the cuts on his chest. There was blood."

"And dead men don't bleed," John finished.

"So he was alive when that was done."

"Oh, God," Molly said faintly.

Sherlock looked at her. "This is not the time to panic, Molly."

"Well how about you let me know what time is convenient, then?" she snapped.

He shocked all of them by putting his hands on her shoulders. "Moriarty is the most dangerous man alive. He's clever, he's insane, and for some reason he's taken an interest in our relationship, as evidenced by the "S&M" carved over the victim's heart. I need you to hold yourself together, Molly, because I can't have my girlfriend falling apart over this."

The silence in the room was deafening.

Molly was the first to break it. "But… you said…"

"I know what I said. So let's just say that someday is today and move along, yes?"

She stared at him. She didn't understand any of this: how he could change his mind this way, now. And be totally unconcerned about discussing it in front of John and Greg Lestrade.

But... stupid as it was, insane as it was… hearing him say "my girlfriend…"

"I don't understand you," she said, maddened by him.

He smiled. "I don't understand myself entirely lately."

"This is all fantastic, but for Chrissakes, can you two please stay focused on the case?" Lestrade asked in exasperation. "Or do I have to separate you like you were in primary school?"

"I'd like to see you try, Lestrade," Sherlock answered, still smiling. "Well, Molly?"

Girlfriend.

Something she never thought Sherlock Holmes would say, and certainly not to her.

If he hadn't have just asked her not to fall apart, she would have done, combining the murder with the girlfriend bit to make it more efficient. It was horribly, terribly wrong to feel happy, what with an ex-boyfriend dead in her morgue while the most amazing, infuriating man alive was in her morgue and had asked her an insane question in the middle of a police murder investigation.

But some part of her did.

Molly looked at him, and knew that since she wanted to be with him, and being with him would never be normal, there was really only one thing she could say. She smiled.

"Yes. That would be lovely. Thank you. Yes is my answer."

He winked at her, released her shoulders and turned to Lestrade. "Well! That's settled. Really, Lestrade, what are you so upset about?"

After Sherlock had finished his deductions and Molly had prepared various samples for analysis, Sherlock coaxed her into going to get them some tea, crisps and biscuits. She looked at him oddly.

"You don't eat while you're working."

He met her eyes. "Can't I change my mind?" He dropped his voice down half a notch. "Can't I be hungry?"

John shifted in his chair, ignoring the innuendo. Good God. Sherlock Holmes making an innuendo. The world  **had**  gone mad. "I think I'll go too," he said. He wanted to call Mary again: she hadn't answered the first time.

Molly looked somewhat flustered, which had been Sherlock's intention. "All right. Back in a bit, I'll meet you in the lab," she said, and they left.

Sherlock took the samples with him to the lab, put them down, whipped out his phone and sent John a text.  _Stall her for at least half an hour_.  _SH_

How?

_Tell her you need advice about Mary. SH_

_I don't._

_Make something up. I need to analyze something in private. SH_

_All right._

Lestrade had gone back to the Yard for a meeting and was expecting their report. Alone at last, Sherlock pulled out the bag of chocolates and got to work.

He waited impatiently for the results, and when he saw them he blinked. Several times. And then he got angry.

He'd known Moriarty had put something in them. He'd had a hypothesis. But nothing had quite prepared him for this.

Testosterone. 3, 4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine. Tetrahydrocannabino. Sildenafil citrate. Arginine vasopressin. L-3, 4-dihydroxyphenylalanine.

Moriarty wasn't going to kill him with a bomb. He was going to kill him with hormone-filled, happiness-seeking, lust-afflicting, bonding-urging chocolate creams.

He all but tore out his phone. "I'd like a word with you," he hissed.

When the phone rang he wrenched it open. "What the hell do you think you're playing at!" he hissed again.

"OH. Did you finally get round to seeing what goodies I'd put in your sweets?" Moriarty asked. "I'm very proud of those, actually. They've been having such a  **lovely**  effect on you!"

"Are you trying to kill me?" Sherlock demanded. "You put half a chemist shop in that chocolate!"

"Calm down. I was very careful with the doses and combinations, and you know it. Of course, I figured you'd eat a few a day. But it seems that you decided to push the envelope, didn't you? Indulge a bit? Mix up the order? How many did you eat?"

"Eight last night, and two this morning."

"Whoa. Well, you'll probably be okay. You've a high tolerance to drugs. Though I'd advise you to lay off them a bit. You'll be even more high-strung and emotional than you have been. Hornier, too. But you've already felt that. And you know what I'm going to tell you about all this, don't you?"

"Yes. You're going to tell me to let it happen and enjoy it."

"Of course."

"Why are you drugging me like this? I've done everything you've asked me to," Sherlock said angrily.

"Of course you have. But I did it for you, my dear."

"For me? Oh, I can't wait to hear this," Sherlock snarled.

"You're not used to letting yourself feel. You try to keep it locked up. What good is that? I'm helping you to free yourself. You've been nervous about performing the role of a lover. I gave you the tools you'd need to manage it. To enhance your emotions. Open you up, make you less inhibited, more responsive. Think of it as vitamins, Sherlock. Love vitamins."

"I am not going to eat any more of them. Not now, not ever."

"You don't really have anything to bargain with, do you?" Moriarty asked bitingly. "I didn't think so. You'll keep eating them until I'm satisfied."

"Satisfied with what?"

"That you don't need them anymore, stupid. Take tomorrow off. Then eat four a day."

"No."

"You've made me angry once today, Sherlock. You really don't want to do it again."

"Haven't you done  **enough**?" Sherlock asked.

"No. I haven't. Now stop whinging and whining. It's beyond your control, remember? By the way, have you figured out what you need to know about the body?"

"Not entirely, and you know it. Molly is going to run some tests."

"Ah, yes. Your deductions and her analysis's. You do make a lovely couple. Nice job on sorting things out, by the way. It was wonderful knowing that not everything you told her was a lie. And you got the hint about her being your girlfriend. I was worried earlier when you had your little fit. What a drama queen you were. But a man like you doesn't fuck a woman that he doesn't have a proper relationship with, so we had to make it so."

"I loathe you," Sherlock whispered.

"Of course you do. You hate to feel and I'm forcing you to. Isn't it marvelous? Now, Molly will probably be up in a few minutes with John, so we'll stop soon. Ask Molly out for tomorrow night. And pack a bag, because you know what's coming. You'll be staying over at her flat."

"Why can't she spend the night at my flat?" Sherlock demanded irately.

"If you like. But remember, John is having his  **lovely**  new girlfriend over for the weekend. Do you really want your first time with Molly to be in the same flat where Doctor John and Nurse Mary will be  **doing it**  as well?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I didn't think so. Welcome to the wide, wonderful world of sex, Sherlock. Now embrace the upcoming loss of your virginity and make plans. After you investigate, of course. Ciao for now!"

Sherlock briefly wondered again if Moriarty would blow anyone up if he threw the phone against the wall.

Nearly an hour later, as Sherlock and John were about to go off on another search, Molly stopped Sherlock by touching his sleeve. "Can I have a few minutes before you run off, please?"

"I have work to do, Molly."

"Yes, but this is important."

"So is the work."

"Sherlock, I'm not asking for hours, I'm asking for maybe ten minutes."

He stopped himself from the comment he would normally make. This was not the time to have another fight. And he did need to speak with her about tomorrow night anyway…

Oh.

The text he'd sent came back to him with razor-sharp clarity.

He'd implied sex on their third date.

Which was about to be tomorrow night.

Well. Yes. Well.

He took a deep breath. "Sorry. Yes. Go on."

"I'll, ah, I'll just be downstairs," John said hastily. "Bye, Molly. See you soon."

"Bye, John," she answered, waiting until he was gone to turn back to Sherlock.

"What you said, in your text. It sounded joking but you don't do jokes. But you've been different lately, so I don't know. So were you joking or not?"

He hesitated a moment before answering. "What if I wasn't? And what if I said I'd like to see you tomorrow night?"

Molly felt her heart rate speed up and a blush touch her cheeks, but managed to keep her voice fairly steady. "Are you sure, Sherlock? Less than two hours ago you had a fit about me not being your girlfriend, then suddenly you decided I was. This isn't something you can run hot and cold about."

"I know that. I'm not." He drew closer to her and stared intensely into her eyes. "As you pointed out, we've known each other for years. We're friends who have taken that friendship to another level. We trust each other, and it's something we both want. I don't see what purpose it would serve to delay things, do you?"

She shook her head slightly, her breath catching at the look in his eyes. "All…all right. Well then, your… your place or mine?" she asked, realizing how cliché she sounded even as she asked. She groaned mentally.  _Way to go, Molly._  Fortunately for her, Sherlock simply took her words at face value.

"Yours would be best for this, I think. John has invited Mary over to spend the weekend. Perhaps it would be best if I spent the night with you, as well. Oh, they want to double with us, I was thinking Saturday night, get it out of the way, and I might be better at being nice to her if I'm with you at the time. Is all this acceptable?" He stopped and looked at her expectantly.

"What? Oh. Yes. Yes to everything," Molly said, the enormity of the situation choosing that moment to hit her on the head with a large proverbial brick.

Sex. She was going to have sex tomorrow night. With Sherlock Holmes. And he wasn't going to just do it and run off like one or two fellas she'd known. No, he was her boyfriend, and he was going to spend the night.

Oh, dear God. It was a good thing she'd saved her panicking for later, because she was going to need it.

He smiled. "Good. Let's have dinner first tomorrow night, shall we? I understand that it's advisable to have lots of energy for this, and I have been rather hungry lately."

"You're not the only one," Molly said faintly, feeling weak from the look on his face.

"I'll text you with the details, then. The usual time?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll also text you when we find something. Try not to worry in the meantime. Whatever Moriarty's plan is, I think you'll be safe."

"What about you?" she asked softly.

"I'll never be safe, Molly. Until he's stopped for good."

"I know. Just… please be careful?"

"I'm always careful."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Fine, almost always."

"Good. Well, I'll hear from you soon, then."

"By tonight, definitely."

She moved against him, and their lips found each other's fluidly, easily, and Sherlock felt a familiar combination of desire and discomfort. It was a constant tug-of-war within him, each gaining or losing ground every time he touched Molly sexually. When he let it happen the discomfort still remained, and if he tried to shut himself down the desire lingered. It seemed he could find no peace: whether or not that was by his own design he couldn't say. But he suspected it was.

When the kiss ended she smiled at him. "Go on, then. I know better than to hold you back long from your work."

"It is a testament to you that I have not already left, Molly Hooper," he said with a quick grin. "I'll be in touch."

With a squeeze of her hand he was gone.

The cab ride was silent for the first few minutes, which was about how long Sherlock figured John would last. But ten minutes later John had surprised him and still not said a word. He sighed. Fine.

"Go on," Sherlock told his best friend.

"Go on what?" John asked.

"Say it. Ask it. Something. Anything is preferable at the moment to silence."

"That's a first for you," John said with a smile. "All right, then: do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"In regard to what?"

"In regard to Molly, you idiot," John said.

"Yes."

"Are you sure? You've been…"

"Tetchy."

"Wired, the past few days. Not normal wired, either. This is different. Is it Molly?"

"She does have something to do with it," Sherlock answered.

"So what did you need to examine?"

"A little gift from Moriarty."

"What is it?"

"Chocolates."

"Poisoned?"

"No."

"Why sweets? What's he playing at?"

"Apparently, romance."

"What?"

"For some reason, it seems he wants me with Molly."

"That's insane," John said.

"Consider the source," Sherlock answered remotely.

"Sherlock, do you understand that if for whatever crazy reason you're right, it seems to be working? You're angry, you're jealous, you're smitten…"

"I am not."

"Signs point to yes on my Magic Eight-Ball, Sherlock."

"Then your Magic Eight-Ball is wrong. You shouldn't be getting clairvoyant counsel from a child's toy, anyway. Or anywhere else, for that matter."

"I don't have to be clairvoyant, or you, to know jealousy when I see it. Or to know that Molly's lipstick is on your mouth."

Sherlock wiped his lips and sighed. "What exactly do you want me to say, John?"

"I dunno. That this is madness? That you're not gonna freak out and run away from Molly, maybe? We all get scared, Sherlock. But you can't let that stop you. You've got to feel the fear and do it anyway."

"You should put that on a poster. You'd make a fortune," Sherlock said wryly.

"Sherlock…"

"I am not running away from Molly. If I was, I wouldn't be spending the night with her at her flat tomorrow night."

John looked gobsmacked. His eyes grew impossibly wide.

"Oh, and meant to say, we're free to double Saturday evening," Sherlock added with a smirk.

John cleared his throat. "Well. That's, ah, that's great, Sherlock. Really good."

Sherlock inclined his head.

"So, you're going to…"

"Need a new nickname?" Sherlock asked with a pointed stare.

"That's not my nickname for you."

"What is your nickname for me?"

John shrugged and smiled. "Annoying Dick?"

Sherlock laughed.

A few hours later they were back at the flat with another two notes.  _Warmer_ , and  _Doc_. John had explained the Bugs Bunny reference to Sherlock, who had asked what happened at the end. When told things backfired on Elmer courtesy of Bugs, Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. Moriarty was getting "Loonier" by the day, it seemed.

Sherlock put a map up on the wall and put a red stickpin in the location of the two clues: the abandoned factory and where the body of Alden Wodehouse had been discovered. There would be more clues, he was sure of it. Moriarty was probably saving a really good one for after "The Virgin" no longer was.

He sat in front of John's laptop. John had just gone to shower. He was staying in tonight, said he wanted to "hang round the flat." Hanging round turned out to mean he wanted to clean the flat up more before Mary's visit. Sherlock had sent Molly several texts and received replies. She was "hanging round the flat tonight," she'd said, which he now knew was code for "cleaning up the place." It was funny in a way, her and John having the same code. And it was also oddly comforting. He would pick her up at seven tomorrow night: they would eat dinner at Angelo's. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere this night either. It would be good to stay in for an evening, he decided, to have time to think about the game…

The game. Moriarty and this dammable mobile Sherlock was tethered to. Moriarty, who could hear everything Sherlock said: hear everything said to him by whoever was with him. Moriarty, who had heard him making out with Molly, heard his first oral experience, heard him moaning in his bed: though whether Moriarty thought Sherlock had been masturbating or had had a nocturnal orgasm, he couldn't say. Probably knew it was a dream, and knew why it wouldn't have been masturbation.

And who now was going to hear him and Molly... change his status.

His first complete sexual experience was going to be violated, tainted. It made him disgusted, on Molly's behalf as well as his own.

This was another line Sherlock did not intend to cross.

That meant he had to persuade Moriarty to let him turn the mobile off while he and Molly were being intimate.

How?

Something clicked in his mind, then: something Moriarty had said about having something to bargain with.

Sherlock thought for a few minutes.

He came to two conclusions.

He didn't have much, it was true. But he wasn't entirely without resources.

Sherlock got a pen and some paper and sat for a moment in contemplation. He wrote a few lines, crossed one out, and then wrote a few more. When he was satisfied, he typed the first line into Google and began scanning the results.

The third result made him pause and he clicked the link. He listened to the music, thought about the lyrics. Yes. This would do nicely.

He bought the song, connected his phone to the laptop, and put it on the phone. Then he went round the flat, searching for three specific items. When he found them, he fashioned them together into what he needed.

Then he picked up his phone. "Ring, ring."

When the phone rang he took a deep breath. "Let's go for a ride, shall we?"

"Now?"

"Is it a bad time? Are you plotting ways to manipulate other people's lives?"

"Always," Moriarty said with a laugh. "But you know how special you are. I'll pick you up in twenty minutes. And you don't have to dress up for me."

"Good. I'll be waiting," Sherlock said tersely.

He scrawled a note to John minutes before Moriarty was due and slipped outside, his phone and his bargaining chip in his pocket.

When Moriarty arrived Sherlock got into the taxi. Moriarty slowly pulled away from the flat into traffic. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"No music today?"

"Yes, but not for you." Moriarty pressed a button on a phone, and a minute later Sherlock's phone beeped. "Send that to Molly."

Sherlock glanced down. An MP3. "What Do You Want from Me?" by someone named Adam Lambert.

"It's soooo relevant," Moriarty answered his unspoken question. "Very emotional. She'll eat it up like biscuits, no worries."

"You seem to be quite an expert on romance. How did that come about? Were you bored for a few days when you were a teenager?"

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Why are you so mean? I'm an expert on many things, like  **you**. Just many  **more**  things. You've neglected your studies, and it's coming back to haunt you. Is it hard for you to admit that?"

"I know everything that's important," Sherlock said.

"Wrong-O, Mary Lou. But you are clever, so it's not too late for you to learn. With a little help from me, of course. Now. You wanted to see me, and somehow I don't think it's for advice on sex. You have John and Mycroft for that, after all. Sure you don't want to take Mycroft up on his offer of a book? You'll be so inept. But then, Molly knows you're a virgin, and she loves you, so no matter how awful you are she'll be ecstatic. Lucky for you."

"I have something for you," Sherlock told him calmly.

Moriarty beamed at him. "For me? What is it?"

"A song for the soundtrack."

"OH. Well I wasn't expecting that," Moriarty admitted. "Go on, then."

Sherlock took out his phone and pressed play for the song.

When it was over, Moriarty sighed. "Goodness, you  **have**  gotten dramatic, haven't you? Is that really how you feel?"

"Yes."

He was silent for so long Sherlock wondered if he'd been wrong. But finally Moriarty asked: "what do you want?"

"Privacy. When I'm with Molly. I want it to just be me and her."

"Aww. You closet romantic. Don't want me to listen while you and Molly have Muskrat Love?"

"No," Sherlock said.

"You're asking a lot, Sherlock. And you know that. What else are you offering?"

Sherlock slowly took the object he'd made out of his pocket and held it up.

Moriarty stared.

"You really think you can do that?"

"Yes. And so do you."

"You're actually willing to do it."

"Are  **you**  deaf, or did  **I**  stutter?" Sherlock asked coldly.

Moriarty exhaled loudly, amused.

"You want me to, remember? You want me to experience passion, fall in love. This will help you get your wish."

A pause. "But it's not what you want."

"What I want is to stop you. That won't happen until we're closer to the end game. This will help me get closer to the end game. So it actually benefits us both."

"You dress it up so pretty, Sherlock. You know what it means if you do this. There's no reset switch, no take-sies back-sies like in primary school. I'll expect it unquestioningly and unconditionally. So I'm asking you one last time: are you sure?"

Sherlock just stared at him. "Yes."

Moriarty was silent again. Then: "All right."

Sherlock kept his sigh of relief internal.

"When you're about to be in Molly's sweet, sweet, loving arms, you can turn off the phone. But not for longer than 8 hours at a time any time you're going to be sexy. And I don't need to tell you that something will happen if you try and trick me, do I?"

"No. But you did anyway."

"Of course. There. You have your bargain."

Sherlock nodded.

As they headed back to Baker Street Moriarty asked: "does it bother you?"

"Does what bother me?"

"That you've done this. That I've made you sell yourself like a painted whore."

"You didn't make me. It's my choice. And I've made much worse choices because of you, so, oddly enough, no."

"Touché, pussycat."

The taxi stopped at 221B, and Sherlock reached for the door handle when Moriarty spoke again.

"Leave it on the seat. I'll put it under my pillow tonight. What sweet dreams I'll have!"

"Have I mentioned recently that you're insane?" Sherlock asked, laying it down as told.

"You flatterer. Go have your little night in. Oh, your last night as a virgin will be spent with Doctor John. How quaint. Buona notte, Cassanova!"

As he closed the door, Sherlock cast a final, fleeting glimpse at what he'd left inside.

A small white flag.

He took a deep breath.

He had, perhaps, traded one evil for another. But he felt at peace with his choice.

John got out of the shower, wandered in, and found a note from Sherlock. It only said:  _Back soon. SH_

John sighed. Knowing something was wrong but not knowing all the details was killing him. But if he did one thing, it was trust his best friend. Sherlock was giving him more hints, even though they were small, innocent sounding remarks. At the same time Sherlock was being very careful not to tell him everything. And John knew he was being eavesdropped on: knew he had his reasons. Knew it had something to do with Molly. But what?

How far was Sherlock taking this thing with Molly, and why?

Sherlock didn't date. Didn't have girlfriends, boyfriends… hell, he barely had any  **friends**. And suddenly he had a relationship? Nothing made sense.

John sincerely hoped it wasn't going to end badly, but this was Moriarty they were talking about. The man was certifiable. Whatever he was blackmailing Sherlock with, it was serious. Probably deadly. And John couldn't help him enough. Just like he couldn't save him from the damned Fall.

He shook his head. No, no. He would find a way. He'd put things together as best he could. There was no way he was letting Sherlock down.

He caught a glimpse of a receipt screen on his laptop and frowned. He moved over to it and looked at it.

His brows knitted together in confusion. And astonishment. Sherlock, listening to… Linkin Park?

Sherlock, snogging with Molly in the morgue? During a murder investigation? Sherlock, planning to… have sex?  **Ever?**

John wondered if he should just give up and go mad now and save his sanity for later.

When Sherlock came back in, John was dusting. The room had a strong odor of lemon polish.

"Everything all right?" John asked.

"As all right as it can be," Sherlock said calmly as he sat on the sofa. Too calmly.

"Since when do you like Linkin Park?" John asked, nodding towards the laptop.

"I don't."

"But you bought one of their songs."

"Yes."

"As a gift?"

"Of sorts," Sherlock murmured.

John stared, baffled. A hunch came to him.  _For him?_  He mouthed.

Sherlock nodded.

That didn't answer any questions. It just gave him more.

"You don't sound very happy for a man who has a girlfriend he's going off to stay with tomorrow night," John commented.

"There is a lot to process in my head at the moment," Sherlock said.

_Can you tell me?_

Sherlock shook his head.  _Not yet._

"Sherlock, how far are you going to take this thing with Molly?"

Sherlock's gaze was unreadable. "As far as I take everything else, John. All the way to the end."

"And what's the end?" John asked.

"I don't know yet, do I? She just became my girlfriend today. Even I can't predict the future."

"No, I reckon not," John answered.

Sherlock leaned back and studied him. "Now, I believe you offered to give me some pointers about sex?"

John froze and dropped the can of polish with a loud thud.

"I'm rather nervous, you know," Sherlock said, looking at him earnestly. "Especially about oral sex. Perhaps you could demonstrate for me how it's done? It involves a good bit of tongue use, does it not?"

John gulped. "Um…"

Sherlock gave him a shit-eating grin.

John shook his head and started to laugh. "You're being funny."

"Of course. I had to get you back for the zip."

John's laugh turned into a roar, and Sherlock chuckled along with him.

For one moment, all was right at 221 B Baker Street.


	15. Is Your Love Strong Enough?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly gets a visit from Mycroft, Sherlock contemplates what is in store for himself, and he and Molly's dinner is interrupted by a face from the past.

Molly stood pensively beside an autopsy table, absently touching her hair. She'd just finished for the moment with examining bodies. There was paperwork to do, or she could take a break. Hell, as late as it was, she could technically take lunch if she wanted. At the moment, all she seemed capable of doing was standing and thinking.

Tonight was the night.

Tonight, she, Molly Kathleen Hooper, was going to have sex with Sherlock Holmes.

She'd known him for three years, she was now his girlfriend, and she didn't know his middle name.

Now that she stopped to think about it, what all exactly  **did**  she know about Sherlock?

He was amazing. He was brilliant, perceptive, honest, cruel, easily irritated, loyal, protective, sarcastic, fast, and strong. Oh, and gorgeous. Impossibly gorgeous.

She snorted. He sounded like a character out of a bloody movie when she put it that way.

She knew some things he'd actually eat. She knew how he tasted when she kissed him, how being wrapped in his arms felt. She knew, after practice, how to tell a fake smile from a real one with him. She knew who considered him a friend: knew who he considered a friend.

He used to do drugs. The greatest known criminal madman in the world was out for him. And possibly, her.

Molly shivered.

She knew she counted. That he trusted her.

Could she trust him?

She shook her head, angry at herself for the thought. Of course she could. There was no way he'd be playing at this relationship with her. He'd never had anyone before her. She was the first. She was special.

He'd sent her a song: "What Do You Want from Me?" by American Idol winner Adam Lambert. It had surprised her. It seemed so unlike Sherlock as she'd known him. Of course, so did dating and kissing and girlfriends, so that was it, she supposed. The lyrics were perfect for their fight, making up, and their situation in general.

She knew what she wanted from Sherlock. But what did he want from her?

She was having a hard time, in the cold light of their initials carved into a dead man's chest, not worrying. Even though Sherlock kept assuring her he thought she'd be safe, he'd been wrong before. What if he was wrong again?

The thought of turning around and seeing Moriarty in disguise made her afraid.

But what could she do?

She was with the man she'd been hopelessly in love with for almost as long as she'd known him, and she was afraid.

Obviously, she needed professional help.

No. Sherlock would say it was smart of her to question. He certainly wasn't one to jump into things without analyzing them six ways to Sunday first. He'd probably raise his eyebrows and ask her what she had deduced, in  **that voice**.

The thought made her giggle.

No. She wasn't going to let this fear win. And anything she wanted to know about Sherlock, she'd just ask him. He'd tell her.

He'd find Moriarty and everything would be fine.

This was  **their**  night, and nothing,  **no one** , was going to spoil it.

"Doctor Hooper?"

Molly froze. She'd only heard that voice three times, but after just one she'd known she'd never forget it.

Slowly, she turned.

And found herself face-to-face with Mycroft Holmes.

He smiled at her, gripping his trademark umbrella in one hand.

"I wonder if I might have a word with you."

_Thirty minutes earlier…_

Sherlock smiled as he sent Mycroft the text. It was a bittersweet smile, but a smile nonetheless.

_You'll need a new nickname for me after tonight, brother dear. SH_

He waited for the phone call, curious as to whether Moriarty had assigned text tones and ringtones to each person who contacted him.

No call.

Five minutes passed.

No text, either.

_Did all your coffee cake addle your thinking? I **said** I'm going to need a  **new nickname**. SH_

No response.

Ten minutes passed.

Fifteen.

Sherlock snorted. Fine. If that's how he wanted it…

He called Mycroft.

Mycroft answered in two seconds. "Not now, Sherlock. I'm feeling a bit ill and I need to see a doctor."

Mycroft hung up.

Sherlock frowned, replaying the sentence in his head.

His eyes widened in alarm.

One minute later, he was outside waiting for a taxi.

_Thirty minutes later…_

_Shit. Keep calm, Molly._

Molly took a deep, albeit slightly shaky, breath. She'd been around Mycroft Holmes before: when he'd come to the morgue about that woman, and when she'd helped Sherlock fake his death. He'd been courteous, respectful: everything she used to wish Sherlock would be. Except for something in his eyes that was so different from Sherlock's.

Why was he here?

"Why are you here?" she blurted.

He raised his eyebrows.

_No. No. You can do better than this, dammit._

"No, wait. Please. Allow me to… deduce," Molly said, amazed at how composed she sounded. Maybe she was channeling her inner Sherlock.

Mycroft seemed amused, but didn't speak.

"It's about Sherlock. Or, me and Sherlock, to be exact. You're not talking to him about it because you don't think it would do any good. So you've come to me, to attempt to appeal to me about something or get information. But you're Mycroft Holmes. You probably already knew everything you needed from looking at my ponytail. Maybe even before you walked in. You probably don't approve of our relationship."

Mycroft looked impressed. "And?"

Molly shrugged. "That's all I've got. Sorry."

"Still, you're more perceptive than I gave you credit for, Doctor Hooper."

"Call me Molly, please, Mycroft," she said with a faint smile. "If we're about to have a disagreement about your brother and my boyfriend, we should be on a first name basis for it."

He inclined his head. "As you wish…Molly. Now. You were correct for the most part. This liaison, charming in theory as it is, is doomed to fail. My disapproval has nothing to you with you personally. I know my brother; I know what he can and cannot do. And this, regretfully for you, is something he cannot do. Not for any length of time."

"How can you be so sure? He's never even tried before," Molly said.

"Exactly. There are reasons, Molly: very rational reasons why my brother has never engaged in romantic endeavors. Sentiment is a chemical defect. It is distracting and dangerous. It is definitely not an advantage. And although Sherlock truly does… care for you, it is only a matter of time before he comes to his senses. When he does, I can assure you, your relationship will be over and you will once again be the owner of a broken heart."

Molly felt herself getting angry despite her resolve. "You don't know everything about him. You never thought he'd come this far. You could be wrong about what he's capable of."

"As much as I would like to believe that for your sake, I cannot. This is destructive and will possibly damage him. It will definitely damage you. I strongly advise you to end it now and save both of you the pain."

Molly glared at him. "No. I understand why you think the way you do, but I'm not breaking up with him."

"No?" Mycroft moved forward a few steps, eyes locked with hers. "Even though he is in danger, and by extension is endangering you? Jim Moriarty is no ordinary criminal. He is the most dangerous criminal mind of this century, he is insane, and he is going to keep trying to destroy Sherlock in some fashion until he succeeds or he is truly dead. Tell me, Molly: how is your back?"

Molly flinched. He nodded slightly.

"Moriarty could have easily had you killed, or injured you far worse. He's unconcerned with you at the moment but that could change. I can assist you, Molly. Arrange for a leave of absence, get you out of the country and let you stay somewhere safe until Moriarty can be found. You cannot tell me that you haven't been afraid, or that you've not had questions or doubts."

Molly fought to keep from shaking. "I have. But I'm not leaving Sherlock."

"Remarkable." Mycroft studied her curiously. "You display the same blind devotion to him as John Watson. No doubt the personality similarities are a large part of his attraction to you. So. You're going to stand by Sherlock no matter what? Even if you die? Does he truly mean that much to you, Molly? Is your… love… strong enough?"

Molly took a slow, deep breath. Then she moved until she was only two feet away from Mycroft.

"Is my love strong enough? I risked my career for him. I lied to his best friend for him. I carried the weight and the guilt of knowing he was alive for almost a year to keep him safe. I would do anything to help him. I would burn for him. I would kill for him. I would die for him."

Mycroft blinked.

"So to answer your question, yes. My love for Sherlock is strong enough. It won't be broken by your words, by Moriarty, by time or by death."

Mycroft stared at her as though she was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Then he almost imperceptibly nodded.

"Well then. It appears there is nothing for me to do except to… wish you luck. I cannot comprehend your devotion, and your love for him confounds me. You have a pure heart, Molly. And despite what you may think of me now, please know that everything I do, I do for a reason. I truly hope the best for you, whatever your future with my brother holds."

"Thank you," Molly managed to say.

"Good day, Doctor Hooper," Mycroft said mildly, and with a final nod turned and left.

Sherlock jumped out of the cab and slammed the door. He raced up the steps at Bart's just in time to nearly collide with his brother as he was exiting the building.

"What the hell did you do?" Sherlock demanded.

"In the car, please," Mycroft said, nodding towards his ride.

As soon as they got in and shut the doors, Sherlock turned.

"What the hell did you say to her, Mycroft? Did you try to warn her away from me? Tell her she's in danger and I'll just end up breaking her heart?"

"Yes," Mycroft said calmly. "What have you done to her, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, Molly Hooper is no longer the same woman she was a year ago. She is exhibiting strength of will and a level of ferocity that I would not have thought her capable of. She has turned from a mouse into a lioness. Something has changed her, made her become more of who she was, apparently, always capable of being. It doesn't take much to deduce that the 'something' is you."

Sherlock grinned. "Are you saying that you underestimated her?"

"A  **bit** ," Mycroft allowed grudgingly. "So. Apparently you are planning on giving her the dubious honor of taking your virginity. Are you certain about this? Sex is a line that cannot be uncrossed, Sherlock."

"Why would you think I don't understand that?" Sherlock snapped. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Very well. Take these." Mycroft handed him a box.

Sherlock stared. "Condoms? Mycroft, do you  **really**  think-"

"Take them," Mycroft insisted. "You will need protection, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, then nodded, knowing better than to argue. "Thank you?" he asked wryly.

"I suppose I can say you're welcome. Now. I have business to attend to, and you probably need to read the  _Kama Sutra_ or watch a film such as  _Last Tango in Paris_. So I shall leave you to your sordid education. Do take care, brother. I'm  **most**  interested to know what you think of sex once you've had it."

"I'm sure you are," Sherlock said with a tight smile. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

Sherlock got out of the car. Instead of leaving Bart's, he went in and headed for the stairs. He wanted to have the Mycroft conversation with Molly now, not later that night.

Molly looked up as Sherlock entered the lab. No one else was there at the moment. He closed the door and turned to face her.

"I just ran into Mycroft, leaving as I was arriving."

Molly nodded. "He… he came to talk to me about you. About us."

Sherlock's mouth tightened. "He tried to get you to leave me."

Molly nodded, feeling uncomfortable, as though she was causing trouble between them.

"Don't be concerned, Molly," Sherlock said. "This… conflict… with Mycroft isn't the first, and it won't be the last."

She nodded again, looking him in the eye with difficulty. "He… he said you'd come to your senses and break my heart. That I was in danger and should let him hide me somewhere safe, out of England. He asked me if you were worth dying for."

Sherlock stared at her. "What did you tell him?"

Molly returned his stare. "The truth."

The air suddenly seemed thinner to Sherlock. "Which is what?" he asked softly.

"That I wasn't leaving you. That my love is stronger than that: stronger than Moriarty, or fear, or death."

Sherlock felt a flood of emotions. Amazement, disbelief, affection, admiration, and relief. He didn't know which one to process first, and in a rare instance completely unlike him, decided just to experience them now and contemplate them later.

"Molly… that's…" he swallowed. "That is extraordinary."

She looked down, a blush on her cheeks. "Well. It's just the truth," she said simply.

"There is a great deal to be said about someone courageous enough to tell the truth in a world filled with lies," Sherlock said quietly, and she looked up and smiled.

She had never been as beautiful as she was in that moment, he decided. That moment of quiet strength, of irrational love and brave conviction and excessive adoration. Suddenly those things he'd once considered silly didn't seem quite so silly anymore.

He'd always thought love was a weakness. He'd never really stopped to consider that it could also be a source of strength.

Mycroft's words came back to him. His brother was right: Molly  **had**  changed. She had become the woman she had always been capable of being with the right stimulus and circumstances. He had brought about this change in her. She'd turned from a shy caterpillar into a breathtaking butterfly. She could have freed herself of him: left him, left England, run away out of fear. But she had stayed. Come back to him. She was his in every sense of the word and it elated and frightened him.

And it frightened him that he was elated and frightened.

Even if he wasn't bound to her by Moriarty, Sherlock was not entirely certain at that moment whether he would want to leave her.

Molly moved closer to him. This time it was Sherlock who embraced first, rubbing his cheek against her soft hair as she slipped her arms around him. They stood for a long moment that way, the silence not awkward but peaceful, and he sighed.

"What's wrong?" she asked, looking up at him.

He shook his head. "I never knew," he said softly.

"Knew what?"

"That it could be like this. You still the restlessness. I feel… safe with you."

Molly smiled. "Good."

"Is that how you feel?" he asked, curious.

She laughed. "I've always felt that way with you, Sherlock. Even when you're being a git."

He raised his eyebrows. "Good to know there are constants in the universe."

She pressed against him, and he inhaled sharply as his body reacted to her body molded to his. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, accepted his desire without trying to fight it. It amazed him how much he wanted her. The chocolates could only explain it so far. The rest, however mad, was just him. And just her. Just the truth.

She pressed a kiss to each eyelid, then his nose, which caused his eyebrows to rise again, then lingered on his lips, which caused something else entirely to rise. He felt her warm breath exhale in amusement.

"As much of a temptation as you are, Miss Hooper, I'd best leave if I'm going to be on time for our date tonight," he said wryly, pulling back and kissing  **her**  nose, making her giggle.

"What, no wicked fantasies about shagging on an autopsy table?" she teased.

"Of course. However, call me old-fashioned, but I'd like our first time to be a bit more traditional," he said softly

She smiled, looking shy again. "I would too, actually."

"Then stop tempting me, Molly, and let me leave."

"Certainly," she grinned. "I need to actually appear to be doing some work anyway."

"I'll see you at seven," he told her, pressing one last kiss to Molly's lips before leaving.

 

It was the only mystery he could not solve.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only (and therefore greatest by default) consulting detective, could not solve the mystery of Molly Hooper.

More specifically, her love for him.

He understood the science of what people called love: the biology, the psychology, the physiology. Chemical reactions, defects as he'd said before. Hormones and neurotransmitters and agents of the body affecting-afflicting-the mind.

He could tell anyone who cared to ask exactly why seeing Molly smile made him want to smile in return now.

But no one cared to ask, because Sherlock Holmes didn't have many friends.

He could count them on one hand, even if he included Mycroft.

For a moment he was preoccupied with analyzing which finger each friend would be.

He realized he'd gotten off track, and this irritated him.

Sentiment. Romance. Affection.

Love.

He drew a deep breath and noted absently that it was a bit unsteady.

None of it explained why Molly loved  **him.**

He was not loveable. Most of the time he was not even likeable.

But she loved him nonetheless.

She was everything that he wasn't, in many of the ways John was everything that he wasn't.

It was easy to see why someone would love John, would love Molly: if he subscribed to love.

Trying to see why they loved  **him**  was beyond his ability.

Ordinary people let themselves feel all kinds of rubbish: useless things like love and anger and jealousy.

Moriarty had made him feel these things. For John, for him, for Molly.

Well, to be honest he'd felt them all before. At times. Especially as a child.

But he was no child now. He was a man: a man that Moriarty had turned ordinary.

Except that he still was himself.

Himself, but different.

Was this what evolution was like?

Was he becoming, as Lestrade had once hoped, not just a great man but a good one?

It was more than even Sherlock's mind wanted to contemplate.

He almost wished he'd never laid eyes on Jim Moriarty.

Except that the man gave him the greatest challenges of his life.

They had both cheated death, taken turns outsmarting each other, like some sort of bizarre Siamese twins that had been separated at birth and had lived very different lives.

And now he'd made it personal, Moriarty had. Playing this game with him and Molly.

Forcing him to feel. To let himself feel. The thing he'd despised and tried to avoid as much as he could.

But here, now, alone in thought if nothing else, Sherlock Holmes knew he had to face the truth.

He no longer hated to feel this.

What he felt for Molly gave him a sense of peace he'd never experienced before.

She had become his comfort, his sanctuary.

How was he supposed to leave it?

Sherlock shook his head. Speculating at this juncture was useless. He'd deduce Moriarty's intentions eventually. For now, it was enough to know everyone was safe.

He had, as Moriarty had so maliciously put it, sold himself like a whore; used the only thing of value he could offer the madman. His surrender.

To feelings, to sex, to Molly.

To love.

He supposed he should regret it. It went against his nature, submitting. Especially to feelings.

But he didn't.

If that was what it took to give Molly the dignity she unknowingly deserved, give himself the sense of rightness he needed, and hasten the game, it needed to be done.

It had, in a sense, freed him: as Moriarty had repeatedly pointed out. He could let himself experience all of it without resistance or hesitation. He didn't have to concern himself with the morality of it, because he'd done this for a far greater good.

It would make it easier for all of them: himself, Molly, Moriarty.

He lifted his violin. John would be returning soon with Mary Morstan, and he wanted a final moment of calm before the storm.

Before, he would've played some Bach, Schubert, Tchaikovsky… something from the classics.

They didn't fit this.

He chose something that, if anyone had heard him play it that knew him at all, they would have been astonished.

But no one besides him and Moriarty was going to hear it except Molly.

Someday, soon, he would play it for her and her alone.

She wouldn't recognize the significance at first. But someday she would understand.

Sherlock took a deep breath, his expression tranquil, and lifted the bow.

Slowly, reverently, the first notes of "Green Destiny" floated into the air and settled over his heart.

Molly stood in the middle of her living room and stared at the clock.

She'd been doing that off and on for the past half hour.

Sherlock was going to be there in fifteen minutes.

To take her to dinner.

Then back to her flat.

To take her to bed.

Or would she take him to bed? He was a virgin, so she wasn't sure exactly. Go to bed together? Have sex? Intercourse? Shag? Coitus? Make love? Do it? None of those terms seemed right. She was a scientist who had no good term for a biological act.

Because it wasn't just a biological act. Not to her. And despite his normally stoic disposition, she didn't think it was to Sherlock, either. Why else would he have decided to be with her, if he didn't have feelings for her? If all he wanted was physical release, there were street corners in London where that could be arranged. A man like Sherlock Holmes didn't casually indulge.

Her flat was spotless. Not that it was normally a mess. But it was extra clean and neat. She'd put fresh sheets on the bed, a few candles on the dresser. And cliché though it might be, she'd burned a CD of all her favorite romantic songs and had it ready and waiting for the touch of a button in the small stereo in her bedroom. She didn't allow Toby in her bedroom, as she'd always wanted one room to stay fur-free, so that was fine. And Toby had been bathed and brushed at a groomer's, so he was clean, if a bit irked.

She'd taken extra care with her shaving and nail trimming. He seemed to like her hair down, though he'd not specifically said, so she'd been wearing it down outside Bart's. She'd bought a new dress, a simple black crepe sheath with wide shoulder straps and a slightly flared hem. She hadn't wanted to be cliché with her underwear, so instead of black she'd bought a lacy bra and hipster set in a blue that nearly matched his eyes. No slip, no hose, black shiny shoes with a simple one-inch wedge heel. Rose-scented soap, no makeup save lipstick.

Molly felt nice and thought she looked pretty, and hoped that he did too.

She was nervous. More nervous than she'd been in a long time.

She wasn't a virgin, but it wasn't like she'd slept with 100 men. She was a doctor, she knew all about anatomy and biology. But this was Sherlock, whom she loved more than anything, and it would be his first time and she was scared of it being awful for him. She wanted so badly for it to be perfect. But how could it be, when she wasn't?

She sighed. It was hard, even now, for her not to think of herself in a negative light at times. No matter that she'd seen Sherlock almost every day in the past week, or that she was his girlfriend, or that she'd given him what seemed to have been a mind-shattering blow job. She wasn't a piece of lettuce in bed, but she was no sex kitten oozing come hither appeal, either. And it was a bit late for her to get help with that, as he'd be arriving in 10 minutes.

Wine. Yes, that would help.

She poured a glass and gulped it down, sighing as the after burn of alcohol warmed her. It would be fine. She was his first, right? So she would by default be the best!

Oh, God. That didn't help much.

Right. She had eight minutes. Enough time for another glass of wine, a song to calm her nerves more, and to reapply her lipstick.

She grabbed her iPod, poured more wine, and charged into her bathroom.

Sherlock was five minutes early, but he knew Molly wouldn't mind. He took a deep breath and rang the bell.

She didn't answer.

He frowned and rang again.

No answer.

He began to feel worried. This wasn't like Molly. What if she was ill, or hurt?

He waited one more minute, then picked her lock and strode in. "Molly?"

There was no response. Now truly fearful he started to charge through the flat when suddenly he heard her in the lavatory.

She was singing.

He dropped his small overnight bag and stopped as though spelled, listening to her.

 _When the rain is blowing in your face,_  
And the whole world is on your case,  
I could offer you a warm embrace  
To make you feel my love.

 

Molly emerged from the bathroom, glass of wine in one hand…

And shrieked and dropped it when she saw Sherlock standing in her living room.

For a long moment they stared at each other, Sherlock pleased and amused, Molly mortified and confused.

Sherlock broke the silence first.

"White vinegar, soap, warm water, two hand towels, and quickly, Molly."

She was too stunned to ask any questions, just got him what he asked for and watched as he methodically began to clean the carpet. Thankfully the glass hadn't broken, and he handed it to her with a small smile.

Molly watched him work and sighed.

"How long had you been standing there?"

Sherlock looked up from blotting the stain. "You didn't ask me how I got in, or why."

She shrugged. "You picked the lock: you probably got worried when I didn't come to the door. Aren't those the sort of stupid questions you hate?"

"Yes. Which is why I am rather pleased that you didn't ask them."

Molly shrugged again. "Three years, I've known you. I've learned a few things."

He smiled again, a real smile this time. "So you have."

He continued working on the carpet until he was satisfied with it, then stood and handed her the towels and vinegar and soap.

"Thank you," she said faintly, going to the kitchen to put things away. As she headed for her laundry hamper she heard him say:

"Long enough to hear you sing."

Molly sighed again. "I was afraid of that." She dumped the towels in and came back down the hall.

He frowned. "Why? You have a beautiful voice."

"Well, thank you, but it just… I thought I was alone. It's a bit embarrassing, being caught doing something when you think you're by yourself."

Sherlock looked thoughtful, then nodded. "I am sorry. I should have knocked on the lavatory door. But… I wanted to listen to you." He looked down.

Molly smiled. "That… makes me happy."

He looked back up. "You're not angry, then?"

She shook her head. "You were worried and you didn't mean any harm."

He looked at her closely, and for all the world he suddenly seemed shy. Then he slowly moved against her and kissed her.

She stood still, trying to remember how to breathe. This was the first real kiss that he had initiated since their first one. When it was over they stared at each other, breathless and hearts beating erratically.

He looked into her eyes, long, cool fingers brushing slowly over her cheek. "You look beautiful, you know."

Molly smiled again. He was wearing the damned purple shirt and grey slacks, and all she wanted was to put him on a plate with a sprig of parsley and eat him. "So do you."

He quirked an eyebrow at her, fingers moving down to squeeze one of her hands. "Well. Shall we go to dinner?"

There it was again, that something in his voice she couldn't identify. He seemed to enjoy saying things like 'dinner' and 'hungry' and she wasn't sure why, but it was definitely sexual, and she definitely liked it.

"Yes. I'm hungry."

"So am I."

Molly had never been to Angelo's, but apparently Sherlock went there often. Often enough that Angelo himself came over to them as soon as they walked in. His eyes widened at seeing Molly, and at first she didn't understand why. Then she realized that John was probably the only person Sherlock had taken there to eat. She smothered a grin when she realized Angelo now realized Sherlock wasn't gay. He seated them with a flourish, got them some wine and water, brought them bread, chatted with Sherlock a bit, praised him to Molly a bit, winked at Sherlock as though in approval and left them alone.

Sherlock caught Molly's smile. "Why are you smiling?"

"You've ruined your reputation," she said with a grin. At his puzzled look she explained: "bringing a woman here."

"Ah." He shrugged a bit. "Angelo's probably a bit surprised, yes."

"He's not the only one," Molly said, noticing that what she assumed were regulars were staring at them as well.

Sherlock shrugged again. "People do little but talk and speculate."

"They also like seeing people who look happy," Molly said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I suppose so."

"Or they're in shock as well," she added with a grin.

"Very likely."

"I've felt that way a bit the past few days," Molly said, then groaned inside. The two glasses of wine she'd gulped down had decidedly not worn off yet.

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"Well, this. All this. It's happening very fast, Sherlock. It… it's a bit to take in. It still amazes me that I'm your first, well, everything about dating."

"Why does that amaze you?"

"Why?" Molly blinked. "Sherlock, have you  **seen**  you?"

"I don't understand," he said.

"You're amazing. You're beyond brilliant, you're brave, loyal, not to mention insanely gorgeous."

Was it her imagination, or did he blush just a bit?

"Thank you," he said softly. "But that still doesn't explain it." His eyes widened a bit. "Molly, surely you've not been wondering why I'm with you, are you?"

She shook her head. "No. Not, ah, not as such. Not now."

"Good. As for my never having done this, it's as I told you. You've known me for three years: you know I've never been particularly prone to sentiment."

"And now you are?" she asked.

He considered. "More so than before, yes. Death, or the very real possibility of it, can make even the likes of me reconsider how my life is spent."

Angelo came back at that moment and took their orders. He refilled their wine and water and left with a big smile.

"And in light of that reconsideration, a toast," Sherlock said, lifting his wine glass. Molly lifted hers, and he smiled at her. "To new beginnings," he said.

She clinked her glass to his. "To new beginnings."

He took a deep swallow. "We'll be meeting Mary tomorrow night."

"Oh, right. Do you think that will go okay?"

"Given how many people I have actually met versus how many I have actually liked… as John's Magic 8-Ball would say, signs point to no."

Molly giggled. "Well, you don't take to many people right away. You probably couldn't stand me when we met."

To her surprise, he shook his head. "Not true, Molly Hooper."

She blinked a few times. "Oh?"

"Yes."

She paused.

"You're trying to decide if you want to ask me what I thought of you," he said.

"Well, yes," Molly admitted. "We're on our third date, after all," she said with a nervous smile.

He leaned back and studied her. "So you're saying I should tell you  **after**  sex," he intoned, and she laughed.

He leaned forward. "Molly… what I thought then isn't entirely what I think now. Please keep that in mind whenever we do have this conversation, would you?"

She looked down for a moment. "I know you wouldn't be here if you didn't like me and care about me. That's all that matters, really." She looked back up quickly and caught a glimpse of something she couldn't explain on his face. He almost looked… hurt.

The look was gone as quickly as she'd been it. He surprised her by reaching across the table and taking her hand. She looked into his eyes, caught and held by the force of his gaze.

"Yes," he said softly. "That is what matters."

She thought she could drown in those eyes: get lost at sea never to be found, never wanting to be found. She wanted him, all of him, so bad she ached. Tears stung her eyes, and she looked down, hating that she was crying on what was one of the happiest days of her life. She shook her head and grabbed her napkin, hastily rubbing her eyes. "Sorry."

"Why are you crying?"

"You…" she took a deep breath and tried again. "I'm just happy."

He gently released her hand, studying her. "Tears of happiness. It seems so contradictory."

"Yes," she said, managing a small laugh. "I'd better stop before I ruin your new good opinion of me," she joked, and he reached over the table and touched her cheek.

"Don't apologize for who you are, Molly," he said. "You'd never try to change me. Well, unless I was being an idiot," he added wryly, and she smiled.

"I like you just as you are. Always remember that."

She swallowed hard, struggling not to cry all over again. "All right. I will."

He smiled and ran his thumb over her cheekbone, then down to her mouth. She nearly gasped as he gently touched the corner where her lips met before withdrawing his hand.

Molly cleared her throat a bit and drank some water, trying to calm her racing heart. "So. Tell me about Mary," she said, desperate for something to say.

"She's a nurse. In her early thirties, widowed, no children. John's already over the moon about her, so there's something different about this one. Tomorrow night I'll figure out what it is."

"Well, that description could've been worse. What are we doing tomorrow night with them, anyway?"

"I have no idea. Probably some banal activity like jumper-knitting."

Molly giggled.

Their food arrived, and they tucked in, eating in companionable silence. They had just finished when a woman walking by with a plate of food tripped, sending the tomato-rich contents directly into Molly's lap.

"OH! I'm so sorry!" the woman exclaimed, shaking her blonde hair furiously as Molly and Sherlock both jumped up. Spaghetti clung to Molly's dress for a few seconds before it began to slide down to the floor. Angelo ordered a server to go help, and a few seconds later Molly was being wiped at with a red checkered towel while the blonde woman, apparently American, kept apologizing. "Honey, I am so sorry. Please let me help!"

"No, no, it's okay," Molly said hastily as the woman started wiping her down with another towel she'd snatched from the server. "I'll just, ah, go to the loo and clean up. Thank you, though," she added, then glanced at Sherlock with a resigned half-smile before walking away. Angelo looked at Sherlock, who nodded and smiled to show that it was all right. A cook called out for help in the kitchen, and Angelo gave Sherlock a thumbs up signal before disappearing.

The server left and the other diners slowly returned their attention to their meals, and the woman now turned to Sherlock. "I am so sorry," she gushed again, sitting down in Molly's chair. "I am so clumsy after a few glasses of wine!"

Sherlock slowly sat down, his eyes never leaving the blonde's face. They had narrowed as soon as she spoke, and the more she'd spoken the more she'd confirmed it.

"I doubt you've ever been clumsy in your life," he said smoothly, and her brown eyes widened.

"I'm sorry?"

"And I find you being sorry difficult to believe," Sherlock said coldly. "Perhaps we could cut through all this annoying duplicity and you could speak to me as yourself?"

The woman across from him blinked slowly, then smiled, red lips parting and her tongue darting out.

"I was wondering if you recognized me."

"You are difficult to forget," he replied brusquely. "Now. Why are you here?"

Irene Adler, disguised as a blonde, brown-eyed American woman, pouted slightly. "You don't seem very pleased to see me, Mister Holmes."

"That is because I am not. Why are you here?" he repeated, this time with an edge to the question.

"Can't a girl just come say hello?" she replied evasively.

"No."

"What a snit you're in," she sighed. "Of course, I am ruining your date. It  **is**  a date, isn't it? Funny: I seem to recall asking you to dinner a number of times. But you always turned me down. Now here you are with Doctor Hooper, actually eating food, no less. Is the world about to end and I haven't been informed?"

"This doesn't concern you," Sherlock said coldly.

"You must understand that I'm curious," Irene continued. "As soon as I saw it in the Sun, I wondered what kind of woman it would take to capture your heart."

"Capture my heart? Have you succumbed to reading romance novels in the absence of clients to dominate?"

Irene stared coolly. "Who says I don't have clients?"

Sherlock glowered at her.

"So. Doctor Molly Hooper. She's the one who helped fake your death, I'd wager. She loves you deeply: it's quite obvious. And you seem genuinely smitten with her. It's fascinating, really. I can understand the attraction. You both like dead people. A match made in Heaven."

"Woman," Sherlock said with a warning in his tone.

"You still call me the Woman, don't you. That's something, at least." Irene studied him. "Relax, Mister Holmes. I'm not here to cause you problems."

"Forgive me if I have doubts about that," Sherlock answered.

"I had to talk with you alone. She'll get over it. Besides, it's not like tonight was your third date or anything," Irene said with a laugh, then her eyes widened as she saw a flicker of something in Sherlock's face.

"Oh, my God. It is. Tonight's your night," Irene said in amazement. "The Virgin no more. Well. I do owe you a proper apology, then."

"You'd owe it to Molly, not to me, as she's the one whose clothing you damaged. And you still haven't answered my question."

"She's something, isn't she?" Irene mused. "I wouldn't have exactly thought her your type: then again, no one really knows what your type is. And she is gorgeous in an unassuming way: those eyes, that hair and those cheekbones... I wouldn't mind us both being your dessert, if you're feeling ravenous tonight…" one hand crept forward on the table to clasp his.

Sherlock pulled his hand away. "I've already had dinner. And I only want one dessert," he said flatly.

Irene didn't seem angry, or too disappointed, even. She smiled. "I suspected as much. You and I would light the sky on fire, Mister Holmes. But I know you'd never be able to trust me. You'd always wonder if this was the night I'd put a knife in your back."

"You're not trustworthy," Sherlock replied. "You're capable of jumping the fence whenever it's most convenient for you, in every sense of the phrase. You and I are not on the same side. Now. I am asking you for the last time. Why. Are. You. Here?"

"As difficult as it may be for you to believe, I'm here to help." At his look of confusion she explained: "I've been to see an old friend tonight."

Sherlock's blood ran cold. "Why are you still running with the Devil?"

Irene raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You call your brother the Devil? What do you call your mum, then?"

She laughed at his shocked expression. "Oh, Mister Holmes. Don't look so amazed. Your brother is very helpful when it suits him. I thought it best to pay him a visit on my return, let him know I was still alive."

"What did my brother tell you?"

"That the Devil is looking for a soul to steal."

"Why are you here to help me? You're jeopardizing yourself."

"Please. You didn't recognize me until I spoke. How would anyone else manage? Besides, I was getting bored in America. Yes, there are a lot of wealthy men with lonely, underappreciated wives. But sex only goes so far. Did you really not know I was back here?"

"I had heard rumors," Sherlock replied remotely. "But rumors until proven are simply that. And you are quite capable usually of taking care of yourself."

"True."

Sherlock gave her a hard look. "You are endangering yourself simply by being here talking with me. You do understand that, don't you?"

Irene hesitated for a moment. "And you endangered yourself , and saved my life, by rescuing me from the terror cell. I may not be on your side, Mister Holmes, but I am in your corner. And I don't like being indebted to anyone."

She wiped her mouth with another napkin. "I'll be helping you from the sidelines. It's the least I can do."

Sherlock searched her eyes, but found no signs of duplicity. Of course, that didn't guarantee there wasn't any.

"I'll go now, before your girlfriend comes back." Irene gave him a saucy look. "Oh, some advice: try to experience sex with your body and not your mind."

He stared at her with his eyebrows raised.

Irene stood and smiled. "Good night, Mister Holmes. I'll be in touch."

Sherlock's eyes followed her as she departed.

A moment later, Molly returned, her dress damp but looking somewhat improved. She sighed. "At least we had dinner first," she said as she sat down.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He laughed.

Molly tilted her head. "Why is that funny?"

"It reminded me of something John says about breakfast."

"Oh." Molly smiled.

"Shall we go?"

"Definitely."

Once in the taxi Molly turned. "Thank you, dinner was lovely."

"Spaghetti incident not withstanding?" he asked wryly.

She sighed. He frowned.

"What's wrong?"

She sighed again and looked down. "I just… I wanted tonight to be perfect for you. And here I am, a spaghetti-smelling mess. Is it ruined?"

Sherlock cupped her chin and turned her face up.

"It wasn't your fault. And who says it can't still be perfect?"

Molly looked hopeful.

He leaned close and brushed his lips against her cheek. "All this means is that I'll have to take this dress off you," he murmured. "Do you mind?"

Molly felt her face flush with desire. "Um, not really."

"Good," he said, and kissed her soundly.

Molly was about to protest that they were in a taxi, then she realized that yes, it was a bit pervy, but she actually liked it, and quickly forgot why she had intended to protest in the first place.

Definitely not ruined.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Green Destiny", Love Theme for Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, from the import soundtrack, copyright 2000, performed by Yo-Yo-Ma.
> 
> And yes, I know YYM is a cellist and Sherlock is a violinist. It can be adapted to violin and was an ideal choice. 
> 
> "Make You Feel My Love," by Bob Dylan, copyright 1997 Columbia Records, performed by Adele, 2008, XL Recordings
> 
> If a few things seem a bit familiar, they echo some dialogue from Emcee Frodis' exceptional story "The Full House," and are used with her awareness and consent.


	16. Boy, You'll be a Man Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly's third date comes to its inevitable conclusion. Smut.

Sherlock stopped outside the door to her flat. "I'll be inside in a few minutes," he said, kissing her again briefly. "I need to make a call."

She nodded. "All right." She unlocked the door and went in.

He waited about ten seconds after she closed it and took out his phone. "NOW would be good," he snapped.

As if on cue (and it was, really) his phone sprang to life.

"Change my pitch up! Smack my bitch up!"

He wrenched it open. "I am not your bitch," he snarled.

Moriarty chuckled. "Oh, but you are. And Molly's. Goodness me, how lucky. Speaking of lucky, you're about to be. Hooray for the consulting detective. Are you nervous?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's sex. Why would I be nervous?"

"How sweet. However have you managed to keep all your admirers at bay all these years? Meant to say: it was nice of your brother to give you condoms. Personally, I wouldn't mind a big family of Holmes children. They could distract me when they got old enough to play the game."

"I think you're satisfied that I'm keeping my part of the bargain," Sherlock said coldly. "Now it's your turn."

"Of course. I do have an imagination, after all. Oh, by the way: I did you a favor."

"A favor?"

"Yes. I gave Kitty a false lead, had her staking out the wrong restaurant. We wouldn't have wanted a photo of you and our dear friend Miss Adler to be on tomorrow's front page, now would we?"

"No. Your generosity overwhelms me," Sherlock droned. "How did you recognize her, by the way? Even I didn't know it was her until she spoke."

"That's my little secret. And as for derailing Kitty: I'm just a romantic fool. Now go on. Off you pop. Or get popped, in this case."

"Must you be crude?"

"Why do you care? It's just sex, remember? Oh, all right. Go consummate the burning passion that rages between you. Better?"

"No."

"So hard to please. What should I say, then?"

"Not a bloody thing," Sherlock said with a smug grin, and turned off the phone.

He drew in a deep, ragged breath. After a week of near-constant surveillance, he was free. It was only for eight hours, but that was eight hours that he intended to enjoy every minute of.

He slipped the phone in his pocket and went inside.

Molly had turned off the lights and lit candles. He heard music coming from what he knew was her bedroom. He slowly walked further into the living room.

She had removed her shoes and was standing in the hallway leading to her bedroom. She met his eyes and smiled. "Everything ok?"

He slowly crossed the room to her. "It is now," he said softly.

They moved towards each other simultaneously, lips and fingers and skin pressing together, melding them into a pleasure poem. Sherlock placed a kiss on the side of her neck, nuzzling the skin below her ear, and smiled against her when she shivered and sighed. Her mouth moved to his jaw, nipping and kissing a line across his face while the fingers of one hand pressed hard on a nipple , making him gasp. He knew the mechanics of arousal, but a textbook explanation conveyed no descriptions of the raw pleasure it produced. And even if it had, it would have paled in comparison to what he felt.

There was still a bit of drugs and hormones in him from the chocolates. He had no way of knowing exactly how much they were enhancing his experience. But it didn't matter. He was there to enjoy it, not analyze it, although knowing himself as he did it would be impossible to completely turn his brain off no matter how much pleasure he felt.

Molly pressed herself tightly against him, one arm winding around his neck, the fingers on his nipples trailing teasingly down his chest and stomach, making him gasp again. Her other fingers wound in his curls and his mouth found hers again, his own hands gliding up her arms to rest near her shoulders. When the kiss finally ended they stood looking at each other as though making certain it was all right to proceed. Whatever Molly discerned from his expression made her smile, and she took his hand in hers and slowly pulled him down the hall and into her bedroom.

He barely had time to deduce anything before he found himself kissing her again, no longer as gently or slowly as earlier. It seemed all his neurotransmitters were thrilled about the free reign they had in his brain at the moment, and were busy sending waves of synaptic messages to each other about how Molly was all warm and soft and goodness: they had no idea her licking the corners of his mouth could do that. The sensations were pouring in, too many too fast, and he nearly panicked before taking a deep breath and getting himself under control.

A control which he promptly lost as soon as her mouth trailed down his neck.

He gasped sharply, pulling back, and she grew alarmed.

"Sherlock?"

He shook his head, grasping her hands tightly to reassure her. "It's… so much. So much sensation. How on earth do you process it all?"

She studied him. "It's very different for most people. Most people don't have your, ah, capacity for taking things in." She frowned slightly. "Sherlock, we don't have to do this if you're not ready…"

"Yes, we do," he said without thinking, and she stared at him in confusion. "I mean, we have to because this… awareness I have is never going to change no matter how long we wait. My mind is always going to race. I can't let it stop me."

Molly looked skeptical. He pressed a kiss to her lips. "I want this."

She nodded. "Ok. Then help me. I don't want you to be overwhelmed…"

"No. I don't want you holding back from me. Just… understand. That's enough," Sherlock said quietly.

Molly nodded again, her lips moving to his, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence when she felt him respond. Time had no meaning for her; there was only his mouth and his hair and his body pressed against hers and every despairing dream, every painful fantasy she'd ever had about him was a pathetic comparison to this.

Sherlock felt Molly tremble against him and his brows knitted in confusion. He was still at a loss to understand how anyone could want him so much. He'd been told before that he was attractive. He'd also been told he had a face like a horse: long and narrow. The reports were somewhat conflicting, and he was no judge. He had many of the biological markers: the height, the intelligence, the strength and agility. But he wasn't one of those broad-shouldered, square-jawed, rampantly muscular men that seemed to grace most romance novels or magazine covers. He was observant far beyond normal human ability, and he could definitely tell when a man or woman fancied him. He'd known Molly fancied him the second time he was in her presence.

A slight pang of guilt washed over him as he thought about the times when he'd flirted with her to get his way with a corpse: the things he'd said about her mouth and breasts. He didn't know why he had felt the need to pick her apart as he had. Yes, he was abrupt and (according to John) dismissive and ignorant of the effect his arrogance had on others. But he'd never told John his mouth was too small, or made derogatory remarks about his physical attributes. Or Lestrade. The only time he'd even commented on Donovan's appearance was to snidely get Anderson know he was aware of their shenanigans.

So why had he always cut Molly down? Why had he spouted off so derisively at the Christmas party? She had, in fact, looked quite beautiful. And when he'd opened the tag on the gift and realized in an ashamed rush of breath that he'd gone too far, he'd kissed her cheek. It had been a confused impulse not rooted in sexual desire, but a desire to make amends by offering her something he rarely gave: a small part of himself.

Had he been unusually cruel to try and drive her away? Had he not wanted to hurt her in his own bizarre fashion? Or had he subconsciously been afraid that she could do what all his fans and Irene Adler could not and truly, deeply touch his heart?

He came out of his analysis to find that Molly had released him and moved back a step, eyebrows raised and a confused expression on her face. "Sherlock, where are you?" She asked with a small, resigned laugh.

Sherlock smiled ruefully and pulled her back to him. "I was thinking about you. About the things I've done. How I've treated you."

"Oh." She looked more confused than before. "You've got my tongue in your mouth and you're thinking about how you used to treat me?"

He gently brought her against him and looked her in the eye. "I never understood before now why I was so awful to you. Why I said those horrible things. I was trying to push you away. Not because I didn't care. It was because… somehow I've always known I could care too much."

Molly's eyes widened. "Oh," she breathed, a smile of wonder and happiness spreading over her face. "So, that's ok now? For you to care?"

"It's no longer in my power to choose," Sherlock told her softly. "It is already done. It would be foolish and pointless for me to deny it. I want you, Molly. I want this. I want us."

Sherlock kissed her again, leaving no room in Molly for doubt, and for that blinding, revolutionary moment she silenced everything in his head.

Molly slid her hands down to the buttons of his purple shirt, an action that quickly made it difficult to focus on anything other than what she was doing. He watched her slim fingers tug open the first button, and the next, and the next…

"Molly," he said.

"Hush," she replied.

"No, listen to me. Are you sure?"

Her answer was to undo the final button and peel the shirt away from his chest. She smoothed aside the layers of material, her dark eyes drinking in the sight of his exposed skin. She ran the palms of her hands down his muscles to the flat plane of his stomach and back up again, watching the expressions that crossed his face. It was obvious that he wasn't used to being touched: every inch her fingers slid along his flesh caused him to twitch. She smiled. "Does that answer your question?" she asked.

"Quite," Sherlock gasped.

She gently pressed him down on the bed until he was stretched out on his back with her straddling him. She continued to caress his bare chest with her fingertips a bit longer before she leaned over him and licked his left nipple. His eyes closed and a low sigh escaped him. She flicked her tongue over the sensitive nub again, then took it into her mouth and very gently sucked on it. He twitched and moaned.

She continued her assault on the other side, then brushed each thumb over a nipple as she trailed her mouth in damp circles from his collarbone to the waistband of his trousers. He was twisting beneath her, breath coming out in small pants. She grinned. He was a babe in the woods, a babe who was about to meet a wolf.

He opened his eyes as he felt her unzipping his trousers, raised his head slightly to watch and discovered that she was staring at him intently. Her eyes never leaving his, she slid them down and off his body. He laid back and shut his eyes again, enjoying the feeling of her touch.

Her hands were hot and soft against his skin as she slipped his boxers down his hips and off his legs, leaving him bare to her gaze. Molly felt a fierce stabbing ache as she sat looking at him, seeing him, all of him, so beautiful like a marble statue that she'd kissed and brought to life.

She curved one hand around his shaft and stroked him slowly and firmly.

Sherlock gazed up at her through half-lidded eyes, full red lips parting to whisper her name. "Molly."

He was about to say more, but she stroked him again, a smooth quick slide of her hand. The words caught in his throat and were replaced by a moan. She bent over him, capturing his mouth with hers at the exact same moment that she caressed him once more. Her tongue slid past his parted lips, explored the inside of his mouth as her hands explored the length of his shaft.

She traveled down his body and back up again, caressing him, getting to know the textures and tastes and sight of him, from sweet and spiced to where he had a tiny patch of freckles on his left shoulder blade. Her hands and lips and teeth and tongue traced the angles of his arms, the clean lines of his legs, the dark curls of hair on his stomach. She stroked his elbows, his eyebrows, his feet. Gently, she wound him into a state of relaxed desire, not stopping her attentions until he was trembling beneath her.

"Molly."

His voice was so dark, so deep it made her shiver. Her hands skimmed down him until they came to rest at the junction of his thighs. She felt him tremble again as she settled her hands on his hips. There seemed to be a questioning in his eyes, something he wanted to say, or to hear her say…

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" She asked.

He glanced away for a second.

"I was… I just…" his voice trailed off uncertainly.

"You want to know if I… if I find you attractive?" Molly hazarded a guess.

He shrugged, a casual gesture, but the casualness was belied by his words. "I've never asked anyone. It never mattered before."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly said. She kissed him, and taking his face in her hands, looked deeply into his eyes, and said: "I think you're the most gorgeous man in the world, Sherlock."

Her reply stunned him, she could tell. He half looked as if he thought she was pulling his leg. She continued. "You know, when I look at you, I don't just see what you look like. I see the person you are. All that's part of who you are to me. And it just makes you all the brighter in my eyes."

Sherlock's slightly wary expression melted into a warm smile. "Thank you, Molly."

She didn't have time to reply: with a swift catlike movement he neatly flipped them over so that she was on her back beneath him. "What are you playing at?" she laughed.

"It just occurred to me that this arrangement is rather unbalanced," he informed her.

"Oh? How's that?"

Sherlock licked his lips and grinned. "One of us has entirely too many clothes on."

"Too many clothes on, eh?" Molly said with an answering grin. "I guess that would be me, then."

"Well you ARE the only other person in this room, and seeing as how I'm in the altogether, I believe that's a very good deduction on your part," Sherlock said.

She watched as he slid his hands up her body, then down underneath her to unzip her dress, slowly pulling it down to reveal her bra. He raised his eyebrows slightly at the color, but didn't comment except to smile. He leaned back on his heels to consider her. Her breasts were small, firm: he could see the outline of her nipples pressing against the lacy blue cloth. Molly closed her eyes and arched invitingly. And waited. And waited…

After a moment she opened her eyes to look up at him. "Sherlock?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Molly. I'm making a complete mess of this, aren't I?"

"What? Why are you saying that!" she sat up and frowned at him.

He plucked at her arms, then dropped his hands to his sides. "I'm not experienced with this."

She smiled and gently brushed a tangle of curls away from his face. "Sherlock… that's not important."

He jerked his head up. "It's not?"

"No. What's important to me is that you're trying; you're sharing yourself with me. I'm not an expert myself, you know."

"You'd never have convinced me of that," he replied.

Molly looked down, turning slightly pink. "Well, I'm a doctor. Research is my specialty." She looked up again when he laughed.

"I see." Sherlock kissed her. "Perhaps I should conduct some research of my own, then."

"Such as?"

He eased her back down on the bed. "Such as, what it feels like for you when I do this…"

He lowered his head and kissed her breasts through the thin material of the bra, causing her to gasp and sigh. He raised his head, a look of pleasure of his face mirroring the expression on hers. "Well, that seems to have been a success."

"It was." Oh, dear heavens, it was.

Sherlock smiled before returning his attention to her breasts, gently kissing and licking them until she thought she would go mad. Just as she thought she could stand no more, he reached under her and she felt his hands at the clasp of her bra. He made a soft sound that was part annoyed, part curious. A few seconds later the bra unclasped and he slowly slid it off her, baring her from the waist up.

Now it was Molly's turn to wonder… how did she look to him?

"You're beautiful."

She looked up almost shyly. "Deducing me?"

"You deduced me too."

Molly nodded. "Thank you," she said with a smile.

He reached down and touched her cheek, slowly trained his fingers from her face to her breasts and followed his fingers with his mouth. He stroked, nuzzled, kneaded and kissed, not worrying as to whether he was doing a good job, simply letting her responses guide him.

"Sherlock…" his name was a caress.

The more she sighed, whispered, and moved against him, the bolder he became. He moved from her breasts to her arms, then her hands and fingers, kissing them, taking the digits into his mouth one by one to suck on them, all the while studying and cataloging her responses. Molly turned her head and pressed his face to her neck. He planted kisses and gentle bites along the soft skin there and was rewarded by a soft cry of pleasure. His lips and hands teased and trailed their way down to her stomach.

She felt his fingers hesitate here as his eyes met hers. Wordlessly she rose up slightly, and he slowly drew her dress down and slipped it off her, followed by her knickers. She lay back on the bed, hands at her sides, watching Sherlock look at her naked form.

He took his time, wanting to savor it: his first moment of seeing her entire body bare before him. The slight slope to her hips, the tiny mole near her navel, the tangled triangle of dark curls between her legs. He wanted to know all of her, every nook and curve, wanted to etch it into his brain so deeply it would leave no room for him to think about anything else.

Nothing else mattered at that moment.

 

Molly sat up and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him down on top of her as she kissed him. He responded eagerly, holding her to him as though he was drowning and she was his life raft. His hands tangled in her hair, his mouth hard on hers, and she met its demands with a ferocity that equaled his own.

After a few minutes, he was no longer aware of their bodies being separate things: he felt so much a part of her, and her a part of him, that he no longer knew where he ended and she began. The ache he'd had for her, long buried, now blazed with a purity of rightness and receded, changed into a blinding halo of surety that had every nerve in him screaming for consummation.

Sherlock raised himself slightly, peering down at her with gentle eyes as he searched her face. "Are you certain, Molly?"

She couldn't suppress the laughter. "Fine time to be asking me that, isn't it?"

"Well, no one could accuse me of having impeccable timing, I realize." He got the look again, the "serious now" look. "I mean it, Molly. It's not too late to stop. I'd never want you to…"

"Here now, what're you going on about!" she exclaimed. She gave him a stern look. "I could say the same thing to you, you know. It's not every day a woman seduces Sherlock Holmes!"

He seemed to process what she'd just said: his eyes widened. "Seducing me? I thought I was doing the seducing here."

"Shows how little you know sometimes, doesn't it?"

Her grin was so cheeky he couldn't stop himself from returning it. "Well, we've already established I'm lacking in a few areas, so I'm willing to concede the possibility…"

"Big of you," she interjected.

"…This time," Sherlock finished crisply. "But don't expect me to make a habit of it."

"I'd never dream of it," Molly assured him.

"Good. Now, where were we?"

Molly glanced at his hands, then at her body, in such a way that left no doubt as to what she'd like him to be doing. He gladly obliged her.

He slid his hands up to cup her breasts again.

She arched her back slightly, a tiny gasp escaping her. He tilted his head, considering what he held in his hands, the smoothness of the skin, the soft weight, the way they fit in his palms so naturally. He slid his hands up further to hold them, fingers caressing the skin, thumbs brushing over her dusky nipples. She moaned when he did this, and he felt them swell and harden under his touch with a mixture of amazement and delight.

Molly arched against him again, her breathing faster, wanting more than his caress, pleasurable as it might be, needing things she couldn't put a name to or form words around. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she gently pulled his head down towards what his hands held.

He needed no further urging, moving down upon her until his lips met a breast. He licked at the warm globe, nuzzled it, and just when she thought she would explode with anticipation he drew her nipple into his mouth.

Molly made a low guttural sound, and he instantly started to draw back, alarmed. "Don't you dare," she gasped, holding his head.

Sherlock snorted quietly in amusement, sucking on the turgid flesh as she writhed beneath him, making incoherent passionate murmurs, fingers sliding down and gripping the bed as he moved his attention to her other breast, her back arching again as though she was caught in an electric current and he was the conduit. He took the nipple in his mouth, caressed it, then rose up slightly to hold both breasts again, kneading and stroking, watching her with curious eyes, pleased with the response she made.

"Sherlock…"

She reached up to kiss him, no longer able to be still, wanting to give him the same sweet torturous bliss he'd given her. Molly wrapped her arms around him and with a swift deft movement rolled him beneath her.

She kissed him again, long and deep, resting her body against his just enough for him to feel her soft heat. She rose up and took Sherlock's face in her hands, running her thumbs across his high cheekbones, his eyelids, his lips wet from her kisses.

Molly swallowed hard. She wanted to say something, but found that she was at a loss for words. And when he reached up to kiss her, she decided that was just fine.

It was perfect, this kiss. Neither awkward nor tentative, his lips caressed hers, feasted on them, devoured them. Sherlock rolled them over so that she was beneath him again. Molly slipped her arms around him, ran her hands up and down the smooth expanse of his back, trailed her nails lightly along his spine and smiled against his mouth when she felt him shudder. There was no tension in him: at least not the tension of nervousness. He'd pushed it away, let it go. And in its place was the sweet peace that came with surrender. With his yielding came more than acceptance: he was aroused, eager, ready to match her desire with his.

His mouth left hers and trailed kisses over her face; quick tiny kisses that fell on her cheeks, forehead and chin like raindrops. When Sherlock reached her throat he slid his lips down the skin hard and fast and was rewarded with a guttural gasp. He continued down, fingers kneading her breasts as the kisses left damp imprints on her chest and stomach. He gave the soft mounds a final caress before his hands moved to her hips, gently squeezing them, marveling at her contours and how they differed from his. Intellectually he knew this, had always known it: his biology and physiology studies were thorough. But here, now, her body beneath his, he could fully understand. Her body was made for his.

When his mouth went lower and grazed her navel Molly felt a jolt of excitement and apprehension. She was intensely aware of his lips and hands, how they were moving slowly down her body. It was almost more than she could stand, and if he went any further…

"Sherlock," she whispered.

He paused mid-kiss, hands grazing the sensitive flesh of her thighs. "Yes, Molly?"

She swallowed hard. How the hell did she say what she needed to say?

"You seem to be…"

"What?"

"Heading south," she blurted, then kicked herself hard mentally for the stupid phrasing.

Sherlock chuckled, his breath light and warm against her stomach. "I'm glad to know your sense of direction is impeccable."

Molly exhaled fiercely. "What I mean is… you don't… have to do anything you don't want to," she said, knowing she sounded lame but unable to put it any other way.

He raised his head. "I'm not doing anything I don't want to."

"Oh," she said weakly "That's good. I mean—"

"Molly."

"Yes?"

"Hush."

She hushed.

He lowered his head again, his lips a scant inch away from the juncture of her thighs. They grazed her dark curls, his fingers tracing the shape of the hair before slowly slipping further.

When he found her center she cried out softly, biting her lip, her hands clenching and unclenching the sheets. He brushed one thumb over her, his other fingers resting against her pubic bone, watching the expressions that crossed her face.

She was in pleasure: he could see that. But how much? How could he be sure he was doing what she wanted?

"Molly," he whispered.

"Sherlock?" she asked, puzzled by the look on his face.

"Show me, Molly."

Her heart hammered in her chest. "Show you what?" she asked nervously, voice husky.

"Show me how to please you."

Molly shook. She hadn't misunderstood him, then. "You really want me to—"

"Yes, I do ," he whispered. "Show me."

Fingers trembling, Molly slid her right hand down until it rested against his. Never had a man asked her to do this: either they were too afraid, or they assumed that whatever they were doing was creating fits of ecstasy in her. Sometimes she enlightened them otherwise: sometimes they were doing a decent job on their own. But no one, no one had ever wanted her to tell him, show him. And the fact that it was Sherlock, his voice so earnest, so innocent and sincere, made her insides quake. And she felt no shame, no hesitation. Only a desire to share herself with him.

She moved her fingers over, bringing his along. "Here," she whispered. She placed her hand on his and guided him, taking his fingers where she wanted them to be. "Like this." And she worked them in a slow, easy rhythm. After a minute or so she moved her hand back slightly, and he continued, copying her actions perfectly. "Oh, yes," Molly gasped, closing her eyes.

Sherlock smiled—somehow she felt that he was smiling—and continued. He felt her arch her back, heard her quiet gasps. When her hand had been on his, the simple eroticism of it had aroused him so much it was painful. Part of him had wanted to stop, to join his body with hers and ease the fierce ache growing inside him. But he wasn't going to do that yet.

After a few minutes, Molly began to moan. He continued, looking down at her, her eyes shut and face flushed, and marveled at how beautiful she looked. She writhed against him, breathing in short gasps, her entire body rippling like an ocean wave. He knew she must be closer…

Molly was, in fact, poised on the edge. But she was holding herself back. It was a reflex reaction: it had always been a bit hard for her to let go. More than one man had been confused and upset by this. But she didn't want that, not with Sherlock. She wanted to let him in. It was so hard to undo habit…

He altered his tempo slightly, but it was enough to send her rolling out again, building so fast she almost didn't realize it. She felt the trembling, the spasms, and she knew it was the moment of truth.

"Let it happen, Molly," Sherlock whispered.

He had sensed conflict in her, and while he knew little about sex, he knew a great deal about Molly. He didn't intend to let old fears stop her. They had come too far, shared too much for that. There was no going back: not now, not for him, not for her.

Molly arched against him, raising herself up, a low wanton cry escaping her lips, her hips writhing as release claimed her, as her body was flooded with spasm after spasm of pleasure. Finally, she quieted and went limp, drawing him to her in a fierce kiss. When it ended, she cupped his face in her hands, brushing a lock of hair away from his eye. She chuckled, the sound rich and happy.

"Are you going to let me in on the joke?" Sherlock asked, bracing himself over her on his arms.

"You." At his puzzled "hmm?" she elaborated: "I've always thought you could do anything you tried and do it well. This proves it!"

"I did have help from you, Molly," he murmured. When she touched his mouth, he smiled.

"You might not need too much more help!" she exclaimed. "That was amazing."

"Only because you were able to show me what to do," he insisted.

"Sherlock… some guys wouldn't even have asked."

"Then how would they know?"

She sighed, twining her fingers in his hair as he moved to lie down beside her, resting his head on her breasts. "Sometimes they don't," she said. "They assume they know what they're doing or that you like whatever they do."

"That seems rather inefficient."

Molly laughed until her eyes watered. "Only you would describe sex like that!"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not logical. If you're having sex to give each other pleasure, you should find out what the other person likes. Otherwise it's a waste of time and effort."

"So practical," she teased, kissing the top of his head.

He tucked his chin down. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"No, it's ok," she said softly, tipping his face up towards hers. "You are who you are. And I'm glad that you care about pleasing me, even if you're a bit clinical about it."

"That isn't all of it, you know," Sherlock replied earnestly. "It's because…" he broke off.

"Because?" Molly prompted gently.

"It gives me pleasure, knowing I can make you feel that way. Your face, Molly, at that moment… and it was because of me, I was able to give you that."

She nodded. "I understand."

He raised up and kissed her, taking her by surprise. When it was over, she said: "but you know, that works both ways."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes," she told him.

And with a quick fluid movement, he was on his back with her on top of him again.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her. "Do people always engage in foreplay for this length of time?"

"If they really like each other and want it to last, yes," she said.

He seemed to consider her words. "Well, then. By all means, Molly Hooper."

She moved to his neck, slowly nibbling, kissing, and licking up towards his chin. When she reached it she planted a few more kisses, then slid her mouth hard from his chin to his collarbone. She was rewarded by a small moan.

She rained kisses down upon his face, his forehead, his smooth cheeks, his closed eyes. Her fingertips learned every curve, every angle as they followed her lips. She then slid down, stroking his throat while she traced his shoulders with her tongue.

"Molly…" he whispered.

Whatever he'd intended to say next was lost as she slid her mouth over and licked a nipple.

His response was fierce and immediate. He caught his breath again, more harshly this time, and his nipple hardened beneath her tongue. He slid his hands over her back, caressing her, feeling around the edges of her bandages. If it were anyone else Molly would have been self-conscious about that. But this was Sherlock. He knew more about wounds and scars than anyone else she knew. He wouldn't be put off by them.

She repeated her actions on his left nipple and got the same response. She gently bit it, then alternated breathing on it with sucking air away from it. He arched beneath her and moaned.

"Molly," he whispered again, voice unsteady and breathless

"Hmm?"

"That… feels…"

"Yes?" she asked, transferring her attention back to the right nipple and doing more of the same.

"It feels what?" she asked a few seconds later.

"I…" Sherlock swallowed. How could he put it into words in a way that she could understand?

"Should I stop?" Molly asked.

"No! No," he repeated, less forcefully. "I.. it just…"

"Makes you at a loss for words?" she said, smiling to be sure he knew she was teasing.

"It feels… fantastic…"

"Oh?"

"You know very well it does," he said, and she lowered her head again. "Molly, I…"

She heard something new in his voice, something akin to amazement, and rose up. "Sherlock?"

"I didn't know," he whispered, enfolding her in his arms and running his fingers through her hair. "I didn't know it could feel this way."

Molly smiled. She said nothing because there was nothing to be said about it. Instead she slowly moved down, her hair sweeping his chest, and drew him into her mouth.

His hips jerked and he moaned.

His reaction gave her a rush of excitement and arousal. He was being so open, so unrestrained in his responses it amazed her, gave credence to his earlier words, words that seemed to have been spoken a lifetime ago. And she knew his joy: the pleasure he had felt by giving her pleasure. Molly would never have imagined him capable of all the passion he was showing now, the utter abandonment to her touch. But the proof was here, beneath her hands.

She continued, using her hand and lips to incite him to frenzy. His breathing came in shallow pants: he twisted like a marionette. And she was the puppet master, pulling the strings of his desire, controlling him completely. She felt him quivering and would have continued her sweet torture to its natural conclusion, but he suddenly sat up and pulled her away, lying back down and cradling her head on his shoulder.

She could hear his breathing, still erratic: she could feel his heart thumping hard in his chest.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm all right," he whispered.

"Then why did you…?"

He peered down at her. "Because, Molly, if you had kept that up for about ten more seconds, I would have lost all control."

"And that is bad… why?" she asked with a chuckle.

"Because then I wouldn't be able to join with you physically, thereby negating the purpose of this activity."

Molly laughed. "Purpose of this activity? Sherlock, this isn't paint-by-numbers!"

"I simply meant… I would have been spent. And that isn't what I want."

She nodded. "I'm sorry: I should've thought of that…"

"It's nothing to be sorry about, Molly. What you did felt… well; let's just say that I would like to experience it again sometime soon, hmm?" she laughed, and Sherlock smiled. "So don't feel regretful. It should be quite obvious that I enjoyed it."

"Yes, it is," she replied. "I just want to give you what you gave me. I want this to be special…" she laughed. "I sound like a teenager!"

"It is special," Sherlock said softly. He brought her up to meet his kiss, then spoke again, quietly but intensely. "It is special, Molly. In every way."

She nodded. She wanted to say something more, but it seemed that anything she could say had already been said. And even if it hadn't, she wasn't certain that she could trust her voice at the moment. It didn't matter: this was a moment outside of time when words would have been an intrusion.

Sherlock pressed her down and moved his hands to her thighs, gently parting her legs even as she opened them wider of her own accord. He kissed her, twining his tongue with hers, gasping as he felt her hand snake down to encircle him and caress his organ, making him hard and aching again in seconds. She wrapped her legs loosely around his waist, using her hand to guide him to her sex, waiting and eager for him.

Their eyes met and locked as he gently eased into her.

Sherlock moaned. She was so hot and wet against him. She felt like a warm bath in the center of Heaven. Molly tightened the grip of her legs a bit, holding him to her as she took his face in her hands. He pushed himself fully into her, taking care to be certain he wasn't hurting her, and felt a surge of desire as she cried out in pleasure. She tilted her hips upward and the added friction made him gasp.

All the voices, all the normal chattering his mind did within itself were stilled. There was only one thought, one desire: Molly.

Molly couldn't believe how good he felt. She had never enjoyed sex this much before. Now she knew it was because she hadn't felt for those men the way she felt for Sherlock. This was the most amazing thing she'd ever known. She didn't think of them as being two separate people. They were two halves of a whole, too long kept apart and now joined again.

Sherlock began to move against her in a slow, easy rhythm. She rocked in time with him, caressing his back, his shoulders, running her fingers through his wild tangle of curls. All that time, Molly watched him. It seemed more important than anything in the universe at that moment to know how he felt, to see that he was feeling the same pleasure that she was. And he gazed back at her, as though he was doing the same thing. That, too, was new to her. She'd always kept her eyes closed during sex. But Sherlock made her want to look at him, to bore her way into his very essence, to join with him on every possible level.

Molly felt something gather speed inside her, something powerful and all consuming. Her fingers clenched the smoothness of his back, her hips moved harder, her back arched as the pleasure came crashing down upon her in waves, radiating outward. She was spilling over, exploding into infinity, a release too strong to be restrained. She clutched him as she came, buried her face in his neck, then flung her head back and cried out his name in amazement and ecstasy.

She had never orgasmed during sex before. Never. She'd given up on it ever happening. And now it had. He had given her that.

When Sherlock felt his, felt her explode against him, he thrust into her with a hard, fast movement, once, twice… and that was all that was needed to send him over his own edge. Everything that he'd kept back and denied for so long demanded he yield, and he obeyed, holding her close as he moaned, feeling his body ignite in an endless stream of pleasure that washed over him so strongly he drowned in the rapture only to resurface and go under again and again, until finally his flesh quieted and he became aware of both of them shaking and slick against each other.

He'd always thought sex was unhygienic and messy. And he was right.

It was, however, also overwhelmingly fantastic.

He carefully slipped out of her and gathered her to him, pressing dozens of tiny kisses all over her face, murmuring nonsense words that somehow seemed to make sense to them both. Molly laughed, a breathless, exhilarated sound, grabbed his chin, and planted a kiss on his mouth. He fit her against his body and tucked her head onto his chest. For an endless moment they simply held each other, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said.

Try to experience sex with your body and not your mind, the Woman had said.

Check. She had been right. Those moments had been indescribably pleasurable.

It's so good, Sherlock. You've really been missing out… you'll be a shaking, moaning mess, wrapped around Molly like a sleek cat, Moriarty had said.

Check. He had been right. It had been good. And wasn't it utterly convenient how Moriarty had arranged for him to be in a situation where he would be forced to continue doing it, and couldn't fight how it made him feel?

Moriarty had done more than wander through his mind palace and smash the china. He'd demolished some of the rooms and built new ones, then compelled Sherlock to go stay in them and see how pleasurable they were. And there was no point in lying to himself: they were pleasurable. Molly was pleasurable. And not just sexually.

Moriarty had known this could happen. Because he was him and it had happened to him. And if Sherlock hadn't have been so busy denying it for the past week, he'd have seen it himself.

Not that it mattered now, that it was too late. In this instance, being wrong was good. Moriarty wasn't going to complete the game until he got what he wanted. It was up to Sherlock to find clues and make deductions. And let himself fall in love with Molly.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. He still had six hours of freedom from Moriarty to enjoy. He wasn't going to spend any more of it thinking about him.

"Molly?"

She looked at him and smiled. "Yes?"

He brushed her hair gently away from her face and gazed at her earnestly. "I would like to do that again. Soon."

Molly laughed. "When is soon?"

Sherlock pondered. "Now?"

"Now?" she asked in amazement.

"Well, perhaps in ten minutes?"

She giggled. "Have I created a monster?"

"It is entirely possible." He kissed her, running his fingertips over her cheek.

They lay together in silence again, enjoying each other's closeness and warmth.

When Sherlock woke the second time, he was on his back in Molly's bed, Molly on her side cuddled against him. The first time he'd awakened it had been to turn his mobile back on. To his surprise, Moriarty had texted him immediately. _Turn it off until you leave her flat. You were a virgin for 37 years. Get your money's worth._

He'd hardly needed encouragement there, and after making sure nothing else was amiss he turned it back off with a tight smile before molding Molly's body to his again. While he usually only slept every few days, when he did need it he recognized the need, same as with food. Moriarty's little chocolates had put him more on track with how ordinary people slept and ate. Sherlock wanted to rebel but since he knew it would be pointless he was grudgingly accepting it.

That was not to say, however, that being curled up naked with Molly and getting a bit of sleep was entirely unpleasant. In fact, somewhat to his surprise, it wasn't very unpleasant at all. It was, actually, decidedly nice. Sometimes at night he felt a chill, but the heat from Molly's soft limbs twined with his had warded that off. He'd also fallen asleep rather quickly and easily compared to normal. He'd felt relaxed, sated and….well, happy, in a sense, he supposed.

He sighed. Things he was not used to feeling. Relaxing was so difficult for him with the way his brain constantly ran like an engine. The only things he usually sated gladly were his curiosity and his need to uncover the truth. And companionship, with John and now with Molly. It was impossible for him to say aloud that he needed people: these particular people. Saying the things he'd said to Molly to get her to go out with him had been easy at the time: he'd been acting, putting on a performance. Somehow, in only a week, Molly Hooper had gotten under his skin.

Had the potential been there all along? Sherlock was starting to believe it had, which made him uneasy. It had been simpler when he could tell himself it was all Moriarty's handiwork: that he was just doing what he must in order to save lives and continue the game. That line was not so well-defined now, and this once crystal-clear quest was a blurred crusade.

Did it matter? Did it matter that it mattered? Yes. He had to keep it straight in his head. Had to separate his feeling's from Moriarty's little movie. If he didn't he'd lose a part of himself: the part that was always able to order and classify. He simply needed to slowly and patiently unravel the tangled skeins of the web, pull the edges apart and sever the seams. As he contemplated the best way to accomplish the task, a line from a poem popped into his head: "And when I've done it, what good have I done?"

He shook his head fiercely. No. No. Even if the only purpose it served right now was for his own peace of mind, he wanted to know. When the day of reckoning came, he wanted to be able to tell Molly the whole truth. How could he do that if he lumped it all together in his head?

This, however, was neither the place nor the time to begin the secret separation.

Molly sighed in her sleep, and he gently brushed her hair away from her face almost instinctively. He frowned at his hand. This hand formed a fist that fought against boxing opponents and criminals alike. It held microscope slides and case files. It was unused to smoothing hair away from a woman's face. But it had just done so, had been doing so over the past few days, just like it had reached for Molly's hand several times over the past week.

How had she done this? This quiet woman, with no razor sharp wit or extraordinary mind, had enchanted him like a siren singing to the ships.

Yet Molly was not really ordinary. Not completely. Neither was John, for that matter. They both had an underlying devotion, a fierceness, a purity of sorts that was a rare find. Sherlock felt tainted compared to them, even with John having killed in the line of fire. They were just both so… nice. Good. The things he was normally not.

Apparently, Sherlock Holmes needed nice and good in his life.

Molly snuggled even closer in her sleep, and the renewed feeling of her skin brushing against him made him decide that analysis could wait. He rested his cheek on the top of her head and let sleep take him again.

The third time Sherlock woke, he found that Molly had been studying him while he slept. Her lips curved into a sleepy smile as his eyes met hers. "Good morning, Sherlock Holmes. Someone's been sleeping in my bed. Can you deduce who it is?"

He smiled in return, moving his mouth down to hers in a good morning kiss. "Hmm. I'll have to do some detective work about that, Molly Hooper."

"Good. Let me know when you find the culprit," she deadpanned, and Sherlock chuckled softly.

Without warning or fanfare she slid on top of him, and he raised his eyebrows. "Are you trying to distract me?"

"Is it working?"

"Possibly. Perhaps if you…" he gasped as Molly's tongue gently traced the outline of his ear.

"Was that helpful?" Molly asked sweetly.

"A bit," Sherlock answered, and his uneven breath turned into a sigh as Molly's fingers slipped into the curls at the base of his neck, gently tilting his head up to give her lips and tongue easy access to the soft cool skin there. She pressed firm moist kisses all the way down, gently biting where his carotid artery was, and he gasped again. It seemed as though she knew all the right places to assault him already.

She smiled and brushed her thumbs over his cheekbones, moving up to kiss him. "Being a doctor has its advantages."

"So I'm learning," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. He was already hard against her thigh and the blood was a roaring crescendo in his ears again, and he thought that perhaps something expedient should be done about it.

And he told Molly that. And she laughed, and they kissed again, and as she slipped him inside her and moved on top of him with long, slow strokes, Sherlock knew for certain that all the shouting about sex had turned out to be true.

There was more cuddling afterwards, more talking and laughing. Then Sherlock was more than ready to take a shower. Molly stood watching him as he gathered his toiletries. He was about to step into the bath when he realized she wasn't with him.

He poked his head out the door. "Molly, why are you just standing there?"

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "Well, I wasn't sure if…" her voice trailed off and she smacked herself mentally. How could she be so bold with him one minute and ride him like the pony she'd never got for Christmas and be so uncertain the next?

It was hard trying to guess what he wanted. She knew it was all new to him and she wasn't sure where his boundaries and need for space would be.

Apparently, it was not with showering with her, because he frowned. "Well, come along. I've waited years for a backscrubber." He disappeared back into the bath.

Molly barely managed to control her grin as she followed him in.

 

He turned on the water and adjusted it to what for him was the ideal temperature. Molly promptly turned the hot water up a notch as soon as the spray hit her skin, smoothing her now partially wet hair away from her face until she felt Sherlock's hand move up to take care of that task himself.

"Like it hot in the shower, do you?" he asked, tone innocent but eyes not quite so.

She shrugged. "Some like it hot," she joked, and he rolled his eyes a bit.

"I thought I told you not to make jokes," he said, handing her a washcloth and his soap.

She took them, lathered the cloth up and began to make large, slow circles over his back. "You also once told me you suggested I avoid all future attempts at a relationship," she told him.

Sherlock sighed, enjoying the feel of Molly's small, strong hands moving in sensual circles across his back. "So I did. It seems you have a habit of not listening to me."

"Oh, well, I could stop… this," Molly offered jokingly, halting the movement of her hands. "I mean, since I'm supposed to listen to you about everything…"

Sherlock turned quickly to face her, the stream of water hitting breasts for an instant until his body was blocking the spray once more. "I have no desire for you to blindly obey me, Molly, despite my habit of ordering people about. People who are easily controlled are only of use when I need to accomplish a task. Meekness is dull."

He winced a bit mentally after the words left his mouth, realizing they would sound harsh. But to his surprise, Molly only chucked.

"So that's why." She switched to washing his chest. Sherlock was about to tell her he was capable of doing that himself when he realized he was intrigued by her comment and what she was doing felt incredibly good. It was remarkable how different someone else's hands could feel: how they could bring pleasure to the simplest things.

"That is why what?"

"I started standing up to you a bit. Telling you how I felt, not backing down. The year before what happened with Moriarty and after your…fall. I could tell then that things had started to change between us. You weren't as cruel. You listened to me. You started respecting me."

Sherlock reached up and took her hands, washcloth and all. "I respected you before, Molly. But you're right, in a way. I didn't respect you as a person, just as a pathologist and a doctor. Respect has to be earned and deserved. It should never be blindly given to anyone."

Molly glanced down. "I suppose we're even, then. Because after that Christmas I realized that even though I loved you, I didn't respect you. As a detective, yes. But not as a person."

Sherlock stared at her in confusion. "But you still helped me."

"Please reference above comment about still loving you," Molly said with a small laugh.

She resumed washing him, moving to his thighs. Sherlock sighed again. "Love is without any doubt one of the most confusing things in existence."

"You only think that because it's not something you can quantify," Molly told him, crouching to wash his calves. "Love is chemically based, yes. But that doesn't change the feelings. Just saying 'oh, it's oxytocin' or 'damn this dopamine' doesn't make the feelings go away or make them less powerful."

He shook his head. "No. It does not."

"That doesn't mean those chemicals can't feel… nice, though," Molly said, her voice teasing. Her hands moved up to his penis and began a slick, soapy caress.

Sherlock found the shower suddenly felt hotter. "No," he said, voice slightly strained. "No, they certainly… can be," he gasped as she squeezed him, applying just enough pressure to make him feel that his body would burst.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Molly asked, one hand moving to cup his testicles. "Did you say those feelings could be nice?"

Sherlock groaned. "Molly… this is… not fair…"

"Oh, well… I could stop if you want," she offered again, doing something with her hands that Sherlock couldn't see but certainly felt. His penis was harder than an iron bar.

"No," he gasped.

"No, I should stop, or no, I shouldn't?" Molly asked, squeezing him again that way.

"Shouldn't," Sherlock replied with another groan.

"Are you sure? You seem a bit… distressed," she said with a smirk.

"No, don't stop, yes, those feelings can be nice," Sherlock panted. "Now will you please stop teasing me and…"

His words turned into a moan as she put her mouth where her hands had been, and that was all it took to send him into a series of violet and blue paroxysms. She slid all of him into her mouth as he came, drawing his semen down her throat with gentle sucking, relishing the feeling of him arching against her in wild abandon, gasping her name as if it was a prayer.

When she finally stood up his breathing was slowly subsiding and the flush fading from his cheeks. His eyes still had a dark stormy look that made her own body ache for the release she'd just given him.

Sherlock scowled at her, then looked almost pouty. "That admission is inadmissible. I made it under duress."

Molly only laughed. She reached for her shower gel, but Sherlock deftly took the bottle and then plucked the washcloth from her.

He grinned, kissing her firmly before moving his lips to her ear to whisper in the voice that always gave her shivers. "You didn't think I wasn't getting my turn, now, did you?"

She didn't get a chance to reply, because his mouth returned to hers. He tossed the washcloth aside and squeezed some of her shower gel into one large, fine hand, lathered up and began washing her breasts.

Her shivers increased and she felt gloriously, overwhelmingly hot. It was like a volcano that had been on the verge of erupting for ages, waiting for just the right moment. And when Sherlock suddenly lifted one of her legs onto the side of the shower and slipped inside her, somehow insanely hard again, that volcano promptly erupted.

He steadied her with one arm wrapped around her waist, while his free hand slipped down, fingers pressing against her gently, experimentally, letting her gasps and ragged breathing guide him. All the while he moved against her, slowly and patiently, watching the expressions that crossed her face as the water struck their sides and slid down their thighs. He brushed his thumb over her clitoris, pressing it, and felt her jerk against him like a puppet on a string.

He laughed softly as her arms went around him, one hand cupping his backside to draw him closer, the nails on the other lightly tracing patterns on his back, then not so lightly. He gasped, his breath moist and hot against her cheek, and his thumb brushed again, pressing and releasing, and Molly felt her orgasm rip through her, cut her to pieces inside like a steel symphony.

Sherlock kissed her as she came; greedily devouring every cry into his mouth as though it was air to him. Only then did his movements become less controlled, more animalistic, thrusting deeper and faster until he reached another climax of his own. Molly brought her hands up, holding his face, tongue taking possession of his mouth, swallowing his cries as he had hers.

When they leaned against each other, sated and limp, Molly released his mouth and pressed a kiss to his warm wet cheek. She felt him smile ever-so-slightly against her face.

"I do believe we've used nearly all your hot water," he told her, soaping his hands again rapidly and working to finish getting her clean before the warm water became cold.

"Mmm. It was worth it," Molly said with a sleepy smile, watching him lather and rinse her. "You're so amazingly passionate. I used to think you'd be a cold fish in bed, back when we first met."

He looked at her with both eyebrows raised. "But that did not stop you from wanting to find out."

"No, it didn't," she admitted, feeling a slight blush color her cheeks. "I'm glad I was wrong."

"There are times when being wrong can be pleasant," Sherlock said, and something in his tone confused Molly.

She didn't have time to think about it, however: he moved her in front of the water and rinsed her, then just as quickly and methodically washed her hair. While she rinsed it, he washed his own, and they barely had time to finish before the water turned completely cold.

As they dried themselves off, Molly glanced at him. "So… what happens now?"

He looked over at her. "We get dressed and go to 221 B and meet Mary." He said Mary the way most people would say sinus infection, and Molly couldn't help but laugh.

"Sherlock, will you please try and be"- Molly was about to say nice but changed her mind- "Civil?"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't try to be rude, Molly. I just meet people and they're insipid or dull or tedious and I don't have much patience for it."

"Oh, I know," she said, and Sherlock frowned. "Just… try, please. You said she means a lot to John. It would really make him feel better."

He sighed. "I cannot make a promise I might not be able to keep. However, I will agree to attempt to… be civil."

Molly moved over to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Well, that's all I can ask, I suppose."

Sherlock glanced at her with a puzzled frown several times while they got dressed.


	17. Mary, Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets Mary, the couples have their double date, and Sherlock has a moment of crisis about him and Molly's relationship.

Molly watched Sherlock out of the corner of one eye as he paused at the door into 221.

"So, Molly. What do you deduce?" Sherlock asked wryly, aware of her stare. He was always aware of everything around him, chocolates and hormones and sex or not.

She laughed, the sound a little self-conscious. "You really don't want to go in there."

"Brilliant. Leave Bart's at once. Your future as a detective is assured," Sherlock said.

Molly swatted his arm playfully. "Ready to go knit some jumpers? I was thinking how lovely you'd look in a dark blue one, maybe with some daisies-"

Sherlock turned so fast Molly almost stumbled backwards. "Molly Hooper, if you so much as knit even one daisy, our newly acquired sex life, amazing as it may be, will be no more."

Molly blinked. Then she giggled. "Not fond of daisies, are you?"

"Not." Sherlock scowled.

Molly pressed herself against him, just enough to make him aware of her through their coats. "Amazing, did you say?"

Sherlock glanced away, discomfited. "Yes. Well…yes."

Molly reached up on tiptoe and snogged him. He resisted for all of two seconds, aware that they were still in public. Then he realized it didn't really matter and opened his mouth to meet hers.

She smiled when she pulled back, then adopted a mock-serious look. "No daisies, then."

Sherlock shook his head. "No daisies."

She tilted her head. "Seems a fair deal."

He rolled his eyes.

She snogged him again, pulling on the collar of his coat. "Come on. Let's go up."

Sherlock sighed. "Once more into the breach," he said sourly, and turned the handle.

Sherlock all but flung open the door, striding into 221B's sitting room like a one man army. Molly followed a few steps behind, glancing around a bit nervously. Surely this wouldn't be as bad as Sherlock thought, would it? And why should it? It wasn't as though he and John had… had they?

Oh, God. What if it was all true? What if they had been…

"Sherlock-"

"Where in the world are they? They knew we were coming back this morning," Sherlock muttered, walking around and examining things.

"Sherlock-"

"I mean really: I know we didn't set an exact time for this little getting to know you event, but they could at least have had the decency to start being prepared by 10 a.m.! Of all the-"

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock whipped around, frowning. "What is it, Molly?" He noticed the look on her face and the frown deepened. "What's the matter?"

"Sherlock… you and John… were you…did you…"

His blue-green eyes widened, and for once the great Sherlock Holmes seemed at a loss for words. Then his features settled into a look of smug amusement. "Did we what?"

Molly flushed, but held her ground. "Were you, you know."

"I'm afraid I don't, Molly: enlighten me," he quipped with a smirk.

"Were you lovers, you twit. You knew what I meant," she said, huffing.

He nodded. "Of course I did. But I wanted you to have the nerve to ask."

"Well?" Molly asked, exasperated.

Sherlock's smirk widened into a grin. "No. John Watson is, and likely always shall be, my best friend. Nothing more."

"Well," Molly said, fighting the urge to fidget while she stared at a spot just behind Sherlock's head. "Well. OK, then."

"Would it have mattered?" Sherlock asked, moving to her and taking her hands.

Molly shook her head. "Only in that it would have explained why you don't want to meet Mary," she said.

His brows drew together. "John has always treated you well. Actually, even more so now. Would he have not wanted you around if he had been jealous or hurt?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. But he'd probably never say. He's a very nice man."

Sherlock tilted his head. "And I am not."

"I didn't-" Molly began, but he waved his hand.

"It's the truth, Molly. You don't have to defend the truth. I am not always a nice man."

"Now you tell me," she joked feebly.

He smiled. "Yet here you are."

She looked up at him gravely. "Because I know you. All right: sometimes you are awful. But sometimes you can be really, really good, too. I've seen it. And as long as that's a part of you, I can accept the rest."

Sherlock reached up a hand, gently caressing her face. "Are you certain about that?"

Molly caught his hand in hers. "You know I am. I love you, Sherlock. All of you. And I'll wait however long it takes for you to know if you can love me too."

A shadow crossed his face, and for a second his expression was so sad, so painful it nearly broke her heart. Then he smiled an odd smile, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it.

"Molly," he said softly in a tone she couldn't define, "Somehow I don't think you'll have terribly long to wait."

Molly's moment of confusion was interrupted by the sound of voices from outside the front door.

"I told you to get coffee," a woman's voice said, clearly teasing.

"I know, I know, but you keep distracting me!" John replied.

There was a soft thump at the door as though someone was leaning against it, then the quiet jangle of keys. "How am I distracting you?" the woman, Mary from all accounts, asked.

"You're wearing a mini-skirt," John answered as the key clicked into the lock.

Mary laughed. "Well if that's all it takes to distract you, wait til you see what I brought to wear tonight to-" the door opened, and in barreled John and Mary, Tesco bags in hand, both their expressions turning from amused to surprised in about two seconds.

"Bed," Mary finished in a considerably quieter voice.

John hurriedly sat down his bags, then took Mary's from her and sat them down as well. "Hello, Sherlock, Molly," he greeted with entirely more cheerfulness than necessary. "We realized we didn't have any coffee and popped back out. It turned into a bit more of an excursion than we realized it would, as you can see…"

"Did it really?" Sherlock asked. "I'd not noticed."

Molly huffed quietly and John gave him a look. "Anyhow, we're back, and you're here, and… Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is, as you know and will hopefully refrain from making a snide comment about: Mary Morstan."

Mary walked to Sherlock, standing in front of him close enough to extend a hand but she did not. "Mr. Holmes, I'm glad to finally meet you," Mary said.

Sherlock's gaze traveled over her.

Thirty-two: possibly thirty-three but no older. Husband was not in the military but her family was. Enjoys helping people but not filling out paperwork. And…

He gave a start.

She bore a striking resemblance to one of the nurses who'd attended Molly in hospital. The one who'd started to come in, saw him holding Molly's hand, and left.

"Are you really?" Sherlock asked quizzically, distracted by this odd turn of events. "Glad to meet me."

"Of course. It's always good to meet the other love in your partner's life, don't you think?" Mary asked. "Now, if I offer you my hand, will you shake it or stare at it derisively?" she added, and John snorted in amusement as Molly giggled.

Sherlock shot both of them a glance, then turned his attention back to Mary. "You don't seem as dull-witted as the other ones John has dated, so I suppose a handshake is in order."

"Good." Mary extended her hand, and Sherlock gripped it in his own: lightly, but enough to tell that her pulse wasn't elevated from anxiety and that she'd been taught by a man, likely her father, how to shake hands.

When she released her grip, Sherlock asked: "Miss Morstan: do you by chance have a younger sister working on the third floor of St. Bart's?"

Mary nodded. "Yes, Michelle. She'd mentioned to me about seeing you in hospital."

"Did she now," Sherlock said evenly.

Mary turned her attention to Molly. "And you're Molly Hooper. I'm Mary. IT's nice to meet you." She held out a hand.

Molly shook her hand warmly. "It's lovely to meet you as well, Mary. John has done nothing but sing your praises."

Mary smiled. "Well, I think I'm the lucky one to have him. But I'm glad to know it's mutual."

"Well. Now that we've all been introduced and politely fawned over each other, may we put up the groceries and have breakfast? Molly and I are hungry," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, of course," John said. "Sherlock and I will put things away and straighten up a bit if you lovely ladies would be kind enough to make breakfast?"

"We will?" Sherlock scowled.

"Yes, we will," John said firmly, directing Sherlock to grab some of the bags.

"I think we can manage that," Mary said. "Don't you, Molly?"

Molly nodded.

Sherlock sighed, but picked up the remainder of the bags and headed for the kitchen. "So what did you and Miss Morstan have in mind for this evening?" he asked John.

"Call me Mary, please," she interjected as they walked by.

Sherlock considered her for a moment, then nodded. "Very well, Mary. Then you may as well call me Sherlock. I never have cared much for being called Mr. Holmes."

"And to answer your question, we haven't made any definite plans," Mary told him. "We wanted to wait for you and Molly."

"Oh! Well, how about we all knit jumpers?" Molly asked brightly. "It's getting colder outside…"

Mary and John stared at her in confusion, but Sherlock dropped his bags and strode back into the sitting room. He planted himself in front of her, looked down, and scowled. "Molly," he said warningly.

Molly giggled. "Sorry. Private joke."

"You make jokes?" John asked Sherlock.

"No. Molly makes jokes and I roll my eyes."

"Yeah, sounds about right," John said.

Molly winked at Sherlock. He blinked in surprise. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and his eyes were warm as they met hers for a brief second before he turned and headed back to the kitchen.

There were, admittedly, much worse things than being on a double date.

At that moment, however, Sherlock was hard-pressed to remember what they were.

He was sitting in a restaurant with Molly, John, and Mary, trying to decide if he should be himself or make an attempt to pretend he wasn't bored.

Pretending took effort, but John was his best friend.

Conclusion: make an occasional attempt not to look bored.

Compromise wasn't normally his area. Or it hadn't been.

A lot of things that didn't use to be his area were becoming his area.

Everything he used to believe, endorse and practice about relationships, sentiment, was being altered with alarming velocity.

It had begun years ago with John. The first chink in the armor, the first fly in the ointment. Oh, he'd had a certain level of affection for Mrs. Hudson and some grudging semblance of respect for Lestrade. And well… something for Mycroft. And mummy, of course. But it was John who had gotten him to truly care, who had taught him about friendship and sacrifice and to actually be a (slightly) better person.

Now Molly had been added to the mix, and it was both perfectly clear and puzzlingly confusing at the same time. He couldn't explain exactly how he felt about her, because separating where Sherlock ended and Moriarty began was rapidly becoming harder to define.

He could tell himself none of it was him, but that would be dishonest. Regardless of whether or not it made sense, or was reasonable, the affection was there and it was not all a performance. He knew what faking emotion was like: he'd done it plenty of times. Even a few times to Molly early on to ensure her help with bodies and lab work for cases.

Sherlock gave it some thought, and a moment later concluded that he did not care for irony one bit.

"Sherlock?"

He jerked his head up in John's direction. "Yes?"

"I said, the butler did it? In the Sheffield case?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Sherlock said, waving one hand absently. "I suspected it from the start, but the evidence confirmed it soon after."

"You never think the clichés are true, but there you go," Mary remarked.

"The clichés are, in fact, usually the truth," Sherlock said dryly, and widened his eyes as Molly lightly stepped on his toes with hers.

John frowned for a second, then changed the subject. "Well, this is a lovely restaurant, Mary. It was a great choice. Don't you think so, Molly?"

"Oh, yes," Molly said. "I've never been here before."

"Not usually the type of place you'd go," Sherlock said.

"Why not?" Molly asked.

Sherlock looked surprised. "You are very frugal, despite your wages at Bart's. A place this expensive wouldn't cross your mind, or if it did, you'd talk yourself out of it. Likely a vestige from your parents' working class background. You were raised thrifty, and you continue to be thrifty."

Molly wasn't sure if this was a compliment or an insult. Then she realized that since it was Sherlock, it was only matter-of-fact like many other things he deduced. It really would do her well to remember that.

"And no one has asked me what I think of this restaurant," Sherlock said, managing to sound both apathetic and sulky at the same time.

"That's because no one fancies a buzzkill," John quipped, and Mary and Molly laughed.

Sherlock glowered. "I am not a buzzkill."

John nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes, you are."

"Preposterous." Sherlock turned to Molly. "Molly, am I a buzzkill?"

Molly looked flustered. "Oh, well…"

Sherlock frowned. "Really, Molly? I thought girlfriends were supposed to defend their boyfriends."

"Only when they're right," Mary said with a grin.

Sherlock glowered again. "I am always right."

Three people raised their eyebrows.

"Fine, I am almost always right," Sherlock said stiffly, and everyone else laughed.

After they paid the bill, the four of them sat finishing tea. "So where to now?" Molly asked.

"Well, we thought we'd go to Source Below," Mary answered. "They have a live band tonight and karaoke as well."

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask why on Earth they would have made such a ridiculous choice of venue when he saw the gleam in Molly's eyes. Of course. Molly loved to sing and liked to dance. Mary liked to dance as well: he remembered John telling him that. Why he hadn't deleted that information was interesting. Did he care about what Mary liked? Keeping up with her preferences was John's area, after all, not his. That information should have left his brain immediately. Sherlock had his own girlfriend to keep up with, after all…

His own girlfriend.

Somehow, this innocuous thought hit him like a ton of bricks.

He wasn't supposed to have a girlfriend. Relationships were not his area. He wasn't supposed to care about singing and kissing and long soft hair and who liked to eat what. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He wasn't supposed to be a boyfriend, a lover. He wasn't supposed to have feelings. Now here he was, playing this game, this game that wasn't a game anymore…

"Sherlock?"

He jerked his head up. They were all staring at him. "Are you all right?" Molly asked.

He managed to nod. "I'll be back," he said shortly, heading towards the back of the restaurant.

Mary frowned. "Is he all right?"

Molly and John both shrugged. "He gets that way sometimes," John said.

Sherlock went not to the lavatory, but to the back door. He made short work of the fire alarm attached to it, stepping out into the cool night air. He pressed his fingers to his temples and tried to block out the roar of his own blood in his ears.

He hadn't felt this frustrated since Moriarty had shot himself on the roof, leaving him with no choice but to jump.

The mobile rang.

Sherlock opened it but didn't speak.

"Problem?" Moriarty asked quietly.

Sherlock was silent.

"I realize the dinner conversation was unstimulating, but it was hardly anything for you to get in a lather over," Moriarty continued. "It's just ordinary conversation from ordinary people. You knew that when you took John in years ago. Is it too much for you? Are you cracking under the strain of being a boyfriend?"

Sherlock still didn't answer.

"I told you that you had no chance of winning," Moriarty said. "I knew you couldn't handle it. Is that it? Do you want to give up? Poor Sherlock, beaten again…"

Something snapped in Sherlock then. "I am not beaten."

"You could have fooled me," Moriarty jeered.

"Then you're as easily fooled now as you were then," Sherlock spat.

"So what's your problem? Was sex not to your liking? Somehow I doubt that. You may be a brilliant man, Sherlock, but in the end, you're still a man. Like me."

"I am tired of this," Sherlock said in disgust.

"Then end it. Give me what I want, and you'll get what you want. We made a deal, Sherlock. Are you trying to back out of it? Should I order some flowers for Molly's grave now? I bet she'd love some pink roses-"

"That's enough!" Sherlock snarled.

"You sealed your fate the moment you showed that you were my equal, Sherlock. You and I are on this ride until the end. So pull yourself together, my dear, and go back to your sweet girlfriend and Doctor John and Nurse Mary. Have Molly stay over at 221B tonight. You should start getting used to that, shouldn't you? I think so. Well I'd best be off before they come looking for you. Good night, loverboy."

Sherlock closed the mobile slowly, shutting his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath, calming the chaos in his mind. He wasn't about to lose. There was too much at stake. And this time, he would make sure that Moriarty was stopped for good.

He threaded his way through the tables back to where everyone was waiting for him. All three of them locked eyes on him as he returned. Molly frowned as he sat down, but didn't ask him again if he was ok.

He knew she was thinking it though, and the last thing he wanted was a round of questions. Sherlock leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I'm fine," he said with a tight smile. "Now, shall we go?"

Sherlock hadn't been to Source Below in years. The last time had been for a case. This time, in a way, was for a case. What would John call this case when it was all over, Sherlock mused. "Bizarre Love Triangle?" "Strangelove?" Some other darkly disturbing 80's tune? Privately Sherlock thought "Let's Go Crazy" would be a fitting title, because that was very likely to happen. Maybe they should leave the 80's entirely and use something newer… although "Psycho Killer" was a good option as well…

"Oh, look! Karaoke starts in 15 minutes! Are you going to sing, Molly?" Mary asked.

"What, sorry?" Molly said nervously.

"Yeah, Molly, Sherlock says you've got an amazing voice," John added.

Molly raised her eyebrows. "Did he now?" she said, voice caught between amusement and embarrassment.

Sherlock sighed. "Is it some deep dark secret? You clearly love to sing; therefore, you should sing."

"F-fine," Molly stammered, and Sherlock frowned. She hadn't stammered in a week.

They found a table and Molly went to pick a song off of the list. John went to get drinks for them and Mary went to the lavatory, leaving Sherlock to sit and watch the crowd. There was no sign of Moriarty, but that didn't mean he wasn't lurking about somewhere. Though it was also likely he wasn't: Sherlock knew he was Moriarty's pet project but the man did have business to attend to.

Eventually they all arrived back. Molly told them she would be the second person to sing and they sipped their drinks and chatted idly (everyone but Sherlock, who only spoke if directly addressed) and then the talking died down as the karaoke began.

The first singer was a male uni student, obviously a bit drunk, who belted out a somewhat painful-on-the-ears version of "The Outsider" by A Perfect Circle. When he'd finished, Molly's name was called, and she flashed them a quick, nervous smile before going up.

Sherlock did not, of course, recognize the song when it began. Pop music, along with many other forms, held little or no interest to him personally. What knowledge he had was solely based on cases, and that was scant. He'd learned more about non-classical music in the past week than he'd learned in the past five years. Popular films, too. Why couldn't Moriarty have at least picked out some independent films instead of that hackneyed mass-appeal codswallop? Oh, yes. It wasn't about him. It was about Molly. Did that mean she'd seen all those films and she liked them? He did not want to contemplate it.

"Sherlock," John whispered, and Sherlock was jolted out of his musings. John glared at him, flicking his eyes towards the stage. Right. Sherlock gave Molly his full attention. She was smiling at him, clutching the microphone nervously. No, definitely quite nervous. Was she unused to performing in public? Had she only done this because of him?

And then she began to sing, and all thought fled.

 

_Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too,_   
_So I stayed in the darkness with you..._

_No dawn, no day,_

_I'm always in the twilight,_   
_In the shadow of your heart..._

Sherlock glanced at John and Mary. They both sat staring at Molly, looking as gobsmacked as he'd felt the first time he'd heard her sing. He wasn't sure why it was surprising that Molly had such a beautiful voice. Perhaps because she never offered up that she could sing, or offered to do so. Perhaps it was because she was so quiet by nature and her gift seemed incongruous with that. Regardless of the reason, it was unfair for anyone to assume there was nothing special about her. Including him.

He joined in the thunderous applause as Molly somewhat sheepishly handed the microphone to the next participant, a young girl who stared at it, then at Molly, as though she wanted to change her mind now. Molly, a faint blush to her cheeks, slipped into her chair at Sherlock's side.

She glanced at them as they all sat looking at her. "What?" she asked.

John cleared his throat. "Molly… that was amazing."

"Was it?" she asked. "Thank you."

"It was more than amazing… good God, Molly, why are you a pathologist? You could take musicals by storm with that voice!" Mary exclaimed.

Molly laughed nervously. "Oh, well, that's not really the sort of profession for me. I like my morgue and my dead bodies. They never complain if I sing! Oh," she said, raising a hand to her cheek, "That sounded bad, didn't it?"

"A bit morbid, yes," John said with a smile. "But it's fine. Considering who my best friend and your boyfriend is, I'd say it's all fine, Molly."

Molly smiled, clearly (to Sherlock, of course) still nervous. There was something more, though. Although she'd spoken the truth, there was more to it than that. There was some deeper reason Molly had never pursued a singing career. He suspected it had something to do with her family. He was about to begin an analysis when a voice exclaimed from behind them: "Molly?"

Sherlock turned to see a man in his late twenties to early thirties, wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans, staring at Molly. Molly was staring back at him with an expression of equal parts surprise and delight. "Steve?" she exclaimed.

"It IS you!" the man beamed, moving to Molly as though Sherlock didn't exist and enfolding her in a tight embrace. Molly laughed and stood up. "I thought I recognized your voice. I mean, who else could sing like you back at Oxford. It's great to see you! You look fantastic!"

"Yes, she does, doesn't she?" Sherlock said, standing up and flashing a tight smile.

"OH! Sherlock, this is Steve Taylor, we went to uni together. Steve, this is-"

"Sherlock Holmes. Molly's boyfriend," Sherlock interjected, ignoring the slightly irritated look Molly gave him and flashing a dazzling fake smile at the man.

Steve stared at him in amazement. "Bloody hell, it is you! I saw something in the Sun, but you never can trust those rags, you know… wow! It's amazing to meet you."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, eyes traveling over the other man with a predatory lightning speed.

Theatre major. Not gay. Not a criminal mastermind, either. Familiar with Molly's singing. Attended Oxford together. Has not seen Molly in three-no, four-years. Middle-class family, same as Molly. Musician: the vocalist in the band performing here tonight. Very pleased to see her. Conclusion: former boyfriend, ended on good terms when he left, would be interested in picking up where they left off. Final conclusion: get him away from Molly as quickly as possible.

"My band is on in thirty; will you all stay and have a listen?" Steve asked.

Molly rushed to speak before Sherlock. "That would be great! We'd love to!"

"We would?" Sherlock frowned.

"Yes, we would," Molly said, scowling. She turned to introduce Steve to John and Mary, and Sherlock continued frowning the entire time.

Steve smiled. "I've got to get ready. It's so great to see you, Molly! And to meet all of you," he added hastily as Sherlock glared daggers at him.

"Charming," Sherlock snapped as Steve left. Molly stared at Sherlock with a frown. "What's gotten into you? Steve is an old friend."

"Old friend? Don't you mean old boyfriend? Really, Molly, have you forgotten who I am?" Sherlock asked irately.

"He's… we only dated for a few months," Molly said, cheeks turning slightly pink.

"I rather think that qualifies as a boyfriend, then," Sherlock said coolly.

"And then we broke up and were friends, and I haven't even seen him in years!" Molly exclaimed.

"Yes. And clearly, he would like to spend some time catching up with you," Sherlock sneered.

"What? That's ridiculous!"

"I assure you it is not," Sherlock told her.

"You're jealous," Molly said with a faint smile.

"Yes, you are, Sherlock," John spoke up before Sherlock could deny it. "You are absolutely jealous."

Sherlock sat down with a scowl. "I am correct about him. You will see."

Molly sat back down, uncertain if she should be angry or pleased. "Steve is harmless. He's a lamb. You know I.. I'm not interested in anyone but you."

"Tell that to Steve," Sherlock said, much sulkier than he'd intended.

"Can we please watch the show?" Mary sighed. "I've seen his band, they're quite good."

"I'm sure," Sherlock muttered, and John smirked.

After the show, as the applause was dying down, Sherlock turned to Molly. "Molly… will you come back to 221B with me and spend the night? We can go by your flat first to get whatever you need."

Molly smiled. "I'd like that… if you're finished being jealous."

He raised an eyebrow. "I was merely trying to prevent an unfortunate situation."

"Right," Molly said with a grin.

Mary and Molly went to the loo, and John turned to Sherlock. "All right, out with it."

"Out with what?" Sherlock asked.

"The whole jealousy thing."

"I was not jealous. That man's life could be in danger. Have you forgotten Moriarty has already had one man killed this week for flirting with Molly?"

John's mouth dropped open. "My God, you're right."

"Is this news to you?" Sherlock asked.

"I thought you were just being a git."

"I am not a git. When have I ever been a git?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Riiight. So, are you certain there was no jealousy in all that deep concern?"

"That man means nothing to me. However, Molly would obviously be distraught if anything happened to him. I care about Molly enough not to want that to happen."

John nodded. "Didn't quite answer my question there, Sherlock."

Steve chose that moment to wander over. "Hi, I thought I'd see if you were all interested in sticking around for our next set… did Molly dash?"

"Went to the loo with Mary… you know how women are, always traveling in pairs," John joked.

"We're actually leaving, sad to say," Sherlock said smoothly.

Steve's face fell. "Oh. Well, could you give Molly this?" He handed Sherlock a flyer with a number written on it. "It's my mobile. Have her to give me a ring, would you?"

"Certainly," Sherlock said with a smile.

Steve shook their hands again. "Great to meet you. Tell Molly bye for me, I've got to go freshen up before our next set."

"It's been most interesting," Sherlock said, his smile tightening.

As soon as he walked off, Sherlock slipped the piece of paper into his coat pocket. John frowned. "You're not going to give it to her, are you?"

"No."

"Sherlock…"

"Would you like to have to go look at his body at Bart's in a few days?" Sherlock asked sharply.

John sighed. "Ok, you have a point. I can't say that you don't."

"Good. That would mean that you were wrong."

"Still don't like it," John muttered.

"There are a great many things about this situation that I dislike," Sherlock said darkly.

Silence ensured for a few more minutes until Molly and Mary returned. "Shall we?" Sherlock asked, standing up.

John followed suit, and they helped Molly and Mary into their coats before shrugging on their own. "We'll have to come watch them again sometime soon," Molly said.

"Of course," Sherlock told her, knowing that his definition of 'sometime soon' was very different from hers. It was easier than arguing, however.

His mobile beeped with a text. He fished it out as they left. Jealousy suits you.

He closed it with a scowl and a snap.

"Everything ok?" Molly asked.

Sherlock looked at her and smiled. "Yes." He smoothed her hair away from her face and brushed his lips to hers. "Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cosmic Love" by Florence + the Machine, copyright 2010 by Florence + the Machine, Universal Island Records


	18. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later, Moriarty makes his next moves, John makes a major announcement to Sherlock, and Irene Adler makes another appearance.

"So then he said: 'Rigor mortis? I don't even know what a mortis is; let alone how to rig it!'" Molly said, giggling a little. "Poor chap. I tried not to laugh, didn't seem proper."

Sherlock looked at Molly and raised both eyebrows. "And this was amusing precisely  **how** , Molly?"

Molly's face fell. "Well, it seemed funny at the time…" and she looked so downhearted that he couldn't help but smile.

"I'm sure it did," he said, and her smile returned as though someone had flipped a switch.

Sherlock sipped his coffee and studied Molly over the rim of the cup. They had been "dating" for roughly six months now. Moriarty had only resurfaced a few times: to give Sherlock suggestions for Christmas, Valentine's Day, and Molly's birthday and a few other random occurrences. Once when they'd had a spectacular fight and once when Sherlock was spending, in Moriarty's words, "too much time on a case." He'd threatened Sherlock that he'd set off a random bomb if Sherlock did not  _go see Molly right now that minute_.

Sherlock went, under protest. But a random comment Molly made helped him to solve the case, and after enduring Lestrade's questions and Donovan's snippy remarks, Sherlock had returned with Molly to her flat to celebrate and apologize if he'd neglected her. Molly had told him she understood how he was when there was a case, and that she had missed him but she wasn't angry.

"I know the work is more important than anything," she'd said, and Sherlock had felt an odd twist in his stomach. His work  **was** important. But it hadn't been more important than John, and it wasn't going to be more important than Molly. He'd kissed her and told her that she would hear from him every day, even if it was only a text at night to tell her he was still alive. That seemed more than enough for her, and they'd spent the rest of the night celebrating his success.

Since then, Moriarty had left them alone. Sherlock wasn't stupid, he'd said, and he knew what he was supposed to do. So Sherlock was continuing the game: dating Molly, spending several nights a week with her when there was no case. Going out with her and John and Mary. Eating dinner. Walking in parks. Listening to her play and sing. Having sex.

Sherlock would have been lying if he said that sex was unpleasant. Though not of his choosing, it was an enjoyable activity. Molly was… a surprising lover. Passionate, innovative and not stammering or shy when it came to sex. In truth, she had all but stopped stammering around him now. She even stood up to him when he became too much of a git, to Sherlock's surprise and relief. She was at times silly, but she was also clever and smart. At times she made him roll his eyes: other times, she made him laugh. He trusted her, enjoyed being with her.

But if he was in love, he didn't know. He had no idea how to tell. He assumed that there would be some epiphany, some revelation. Some defining moment that told him yes, he, Sherlock Holmes, was in love with Molly Hooper. He was waiting for that moment, doing nothing to stop it as per his deal with that devil Moriarty.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was on the lookout for love. But so far it was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock?"

He realized Molly had been speaking and shook his head. "Sorry. You were saying?"

"I won tickets to see  _Fiddler on the Roof_ tomorrow night. At a charity raffle at work. Would you like to come with me?"

He blinked. How long had he been thinking about her? "Yes," he answered. "That sounds… good."

Molly smiled again. "All right. Well, I'd better get back. I'll see you tonight at seven, then?"

"Yes," he replied. "I'll pick you up here."

She stood up, then leaned down for a kiss. He obliged, still a bit distracted by his earlier distraction. But he quickly lost himself in the warmth of her mouth. He could almost feel the dopamine start to swirl around in his brain. It was there of its own accord: he'd stopped eating the chocolates four months ago. Moriarty had told him he knew he didn't need them anymore.

Molly sighed and stood back up. "Bye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Molly," he said softly, watching her go.

John rang him at that moment. Sherlock was surprised. John seldom rang him during the day, and especially not if he knew he was with Molly.

"John?" Sherlock asked by way of greeting when he answered.

"Sherlock, if you're finished for now at Bart's, could you come back to Baker Street? There's something I want to show you."

Sherlock frowned. John was nervous; it was obvious. But he didn't sound in danger. Worried, though. And excited. Something was going on. Something important.

"All right, I'm on my way," Sherlock responded, then snapped the phone shut. As he made his way outside and was about to hail a taxi, he saw the long black car parked across the street and sighed. It seemed Mycroft wanted a word first.

Sherlock slipped into the car. Mycroft held a yellow file folder in one hand and a Blackberry in the other. He looked up after Sherlock closed the door.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade will be contacting you within an hour about a murder victim."

Sherlock frowned. "Why an hour?"

"I have not yet notified him of said victim," Mycroft said.

"A murder and you're not telling the police immediately? Why?"

Mycroft fixed Sherlock with an unusually intense gaze. "Because John Watson is about to make a major revelation to you that I deem more important at the moment."

"More important than a murder? Than the work?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "What could he need to tell me that's more important than that?"

Mycroft only blinked. "You will find out soon enough. Meanwhile, here is the information on the victim." He handed the folder to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the folder. "You realize this is illegal," he said. Mycroft only stared at him placidly.

"Right. When has that ever bothered you before?" Sherlock muttered. He started reading and frowned. "This man is an ex-boyfriend of Molly's. He was in a band. We saw them perform six months ago."

"Yes. Quite the coincidence, wouldn't you say?" Mycroft asked.

The look on his face was plain.

At that moment Sherlock got a text.

_Get out of the car one block from 221B. Look for a man begging for change. Give him a fiver. He will give you something in return. Walk twenty steps away from him and await further instructions._

Sherlock looked at Mycroft. "Yes. Quite."

"Problem?" Mycroft asked.

"No," Sherlock said smoothly.

"Let me borrow your mobile for a moment," Mycroft said.

"Why?"

"Because mine is occupied," Mycroft said, sounding the slightest bit irritated.

Sherlock handed over his phone. Mycroft stared at it for a moment, then frowned. "Why do you have no signal in the middle of London?"

"Am I suddenly the mobile expert?" Sherlock asked dourly.

"Needs to be rebooted," Mycroft said, and with that he opened the phone and removed the battery before Sherlock could react.

Sherlock stared in horror. "You do realize what you've done, don't you?"

"I've done nothing," Mycroft said calmly. "He'll know perfectly well you'd lost signal. Now be quiet a moment." He removed a tiny sliver of a chip from the phone, then replaced the battery and rebooted the phone so fast his hands were nearly a blur. It was times like these when Sherlock was reminded that, although Mycroft disdained physical activity, he was perfectly capable of moving fast and taking care of himself when needed.

The phone began to reboot. Sherlock waited for the sound of an explosion, but there wasn't one.

When it finished, Mycroft glanced at the screen. "There you are, back to normal," he said. He handed the phone out to Sherlock, who took it warily. "Don't you need to make a call?"

"No time now, we're only three blocks from Baker Street," Mycroft said. He managed to sound vaguely irritated, as though this was somehow Sherlock's fault. Which, in a way, it was.

Sherlock counted to two and said loudly: "Stop the car!"

"Do as he says," Mycroft sighed, and the car rolled to a stop.

Sherlock jumped out. "Thank you for the lift, brother dear. I'll be in touch."

He shut the door. As the car rolled away, Sherlock walked quickly up the sidewalk until he was one block away from 221B. A dark haired, unkempt beggar sat pressed against a building, a tin cup out in front of him. "Spare some change, sir?" The man asked.

Sherlock withdrew a fiver from his wallet and dropped it into the cup. "Oh! Bless you, sir!" The man exclaimed happily. "And here's something for you!"

He held a small brown paper bag out. The top was folded down. Sherlock took it and began walking. He frowned as he counted the 20 steps. The bag clearly contained a mobile phone. Why?

On the 20th step he stopped and waited as instructed. A ringing sound emanated from the bag. He opened it. It was a sleek black Samsung Galaxy phone, one of the newer models. He pressed the button. "Did you decide I needed an upgrade?" He asked wryly.

"Never say I've never given you anything nice, Sherlock," Moriarty smirked. His tone was mellow, friendly. "Put your other phone in the bag and give it to the man you got this one from."

"Why musical phones?" Sherlock demanded sharply.

"This one doesn't have any listening or tracking devices," Moriarty said.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Not that I enjoyed your attention, but why?"

"I don't need that anymore," Moriarty said. "The game is almost over, Sherlock. Well: almost is relative. But it's time for the next step. Time for me not to know what you're doing. Don't you just love the random elements in our little games?"

"What makes you think I won't go to Lestrade or Mycroft and tell them everything?" Sherlock asked.

Moriarty chuckled. "Oh, honey. What's kept you from doing that already? Me listening in? As if you don't have a hundred other ways to communicate something to someone?" He laughed. "You haven't done it because you knew if you played by the rules, so would I. But our time is nearly up. And I want your other phone for, well: let's call it sentimental reasons."

Sherlock was about to say Moriarty didn't do sentiment, but he remembered that was not truly the case. Instead, he asked: "so what now? You don't care if I tell the world what you're doing?"

"You won't," Moriarty said simply. "I'd know if you got too out of hand. And so would you. By all means tell your little friends, though. This is our last dance, Sherlock. I want it to be proper."

"Proper," Sherlock echoed.

"Yes. I always give you all the clues you need, don't I?"

"Yes, right before you're going to kill me," Sherlock said.

"Well there's your answer," Moriarty said. "I've GOT to run now. Nice chatting with you. Enjoy the new phone!"

Sherlock pressed the button and dropped his other phone into the bag. He walked back to the man and handed it to him. "I think you could use this more than me," he told the beggar, and the man only smiled.

He walked with lightning speed to 221, opening the door and bounding up the stairs. He wasn't really sure if he could trust Moriarty, but he was going to put it to the test.

Sherlock stopped short just as John's eyes shot up to meet his.

"John?" Sherlock asked. He analyzed but for once could not observe what was going on.

"Sherlock. Good. You're here. That's good."

"You're babbling, John. What is this all about?" Sherlock asked.

John exhaled loudly, then turned and faced him. "I need to tell you something."

"And for this you drag me away from Bart's?"

John glowered. "It's  **important**."

"Then I suggest you tell me," Sherlock said testily.

John blew out another loud breath. "OK. I'm just going to tell it like it is. No beating around the bush here."

"You realize by saying that you've contradicted yourself," Sherlock said.

"Bloody Hell, I'm nervous, OK? It's not every day I tell my best friend I'm going to ask my girlfriend to marry me!" John snapped, and his eyes widened as he realized the full extent of his words.

Sherlock went very still. If he were anyone else he would've repeated John. Instead he said, slowly: "You are going to ask Mary to marry you."

"Yeah. I am."

It was rare that Sherlock's brain failed him. This was one of those times. "When?" He managed to ask.

John's face was calmer now, though he was still nervous. "Tonight after dinner."

Sherlock blinked. "I see."

Both of them stood there in silence for a moment. Finally John cleared his throat. "So, yeah. I wanted you to know now."

"I see." Sherlock pondered for a moment before looking up at his friend, then down.

"Well, I can't say that it won't take some getting used to, having someone else living in the flat, but-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. He moved closer to his friend and stared him in the eyes. Very gently he said: "we won't be living here."

Sherlock stopped, looking at John again. "What?" He knew the question sounded stupid even as he asked it, but sounding stupid was the least of his concerns at the moment.

"We won't be living here," John repeated. "Mary and I will get a place of our own in a few months."

"Why on Earth would you do that?" Sherlock snapped.

"Because we'll be getting married!" John snapped back.

"Are you sure she'll say yes?" Sherlock asked spitefully, then waved his hand. "Of course she'll say yes, don't ask stupid questions."

"Don't make stupid comments," John shot back.

"I don't understand why that necessitates your moving out, John! Don't you understand that if you leave I'll be-" Sherlock stopped.

John studied him. "You'll be what?" He asked softly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Without an assistant."

John shook his head. "You know, I'd really hoped that it wouldn't be too much to ask for that you'd be happy for me," he said. He laughed, short and bitter. "Shows you how stupid I am, doesn't it?"

Sherlock scowled. "You want me to be happy that you're leaving? Leaving our work?"

"I'm not leaving you! Or the work! I'm going to have to get a proper job but I'll still help you when I can! Sherlock how the Hell do you have the nerve to make this about you, anyway? I'm happy! I want you to be happy for me!" John's eyes glimmered for a moment before he blinked hard. "Why can't you for once just think about someone else?"

Now it was Sherlock whose eyes shone for a second. "Yes, you're right. I was certainly only thinking about myself when I jumped off the roof of Bart's, wasn't I?" He asked softly.

John looked down, ashamed. "I didn't… I'm sorry," he said quietly. He looked back up. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm really sorry."

Sherlock glanced down. "Yes, well. Perhaps we should move on for now, all right?"

"OK," John replied. He paused for a moment and said: "you know you'll still have Molly, right?"

Sherlock's expression grew distant. "No. I don't know that."

John blinked. "Oh, God. Something's happened, hasn't it? What's happened?"

"Mycroft's men found the body of that musician Steve that Molly used to date."

"So he was…"

"Murdered, yes," Sherlock said. "Moriarty also gave me a new phone: one with no monitoring devices. He said it's time for the next step of the game."

John's lips pressed into a tight line. "And you still have no idea of what the game is."

"No. I do."

"You do? What is it?" John exclaimed.

"Two dead bodies, John. Both ex-boyfriends of Molly. One found right after I have two dates with Molly, and now another after six months of us dating."

"Right, well, Moriarty could just be getting rid of your competition, like you said," John began, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Don't be absurd. I have no competition," he said dismissively.

John laughed a brief bark of a laugh. "You certainly have no modesty," he said.

Sherlock sighed. "John. You know as well as I do that Molly is in love with me and has been for a long time now. Two years, one month, and seventeen days, to be precise. Well, give or take a few days. A woman like Molly doesn't fall in love and go back to seeing old boyfriends."

"No, she doesn't," John agreed. "So what does it mean?"

Sherlock's reply as cut off by his mobile ringing. He answered it. "Yes, Lestrade. Where? How long ago? On our way."

He hung up. John stared. "The musician?"

"Yes."

"But you knew about it already. How?"

"I told you. Mycroft."

"So what took them so long to call?"

"Mycroft thought we needed to have our chat first. It seems my brother knew you were planning to propose and I didn't." Sherlock looked irritated to no end by this.

"How? Oh, bloody hell, he monitors my bank account," John sighed. "He knew I'd bought the ring."

"Very emotionally insightful of him to want me to talk to you first," Sherlock mused.

"I hope that runs in the family some day," John said wryly, and Sherlock's lips twitched in a slight smile.

"Come on," Sherlock said, turning towards the door. "We've got to meet Lestrade at the morgue. I'll try to have you home in time for losing your esteemed nickname."

Lestrade and Donovan were in the morgue, along with Molly. Sherlock and John came in and after a quick glance at Molly Sherlock flicked his eyes over Lestrade and Donovan. "Well?"

"Body was discovered by some joggers Time of death between 1 and 5 a.m."

"What was the cause of death?" John asked.

"Strangulation," Sherlock said, glancing at the body. "The same letters carved are into his chest as last time, I'm sure."

"Yeah, they are," Lestrade said.

"Everything creepy happens around you, Holmes," Donovan said. "Why is that?"

"That's enough," Lestrade snapped.

"Why? It's true. And you need to tell him the rest of it," Donovan said.

"What rest of it?" Molly asked.

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock… one of your cards was found in his jacket."

"My cards? Since when I do go around giving out cards?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade showed him the evidence bag. It contained a business card that said "The Science of Deduction" and has his contact information along with the title of Consulting Detective.

"I've never seen that card before. I've never had cards like that," Sherlock said, frowning. "I assume you dusted it for prints?"

"Yeah. Has his on it but not yours."

"Of course you would know to wear gloves," Donovan said softly.

"Sergeant Donovan, I would also know how to dispose of a body properly if I was inclined to commit murder, as well as to remove any incriminating evidence first," Sherlock replied. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, don't you need to ask me something?"

"Wait a minute," John and Molly said simultaneously.

"It's fine," Sherlock told them. "Go ahead, Detective Inspector. I've been expecting it."

"You have?"

"Of course. Since you phoned me. Two of Molly's former boyfriends have now turned up dead and she's dating a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath: what else could you do?"

"Sherlock didn't do this!" Molly burst out.

"Molly," Lestrade said.

"He wouldn't have! Even if he did he wouldn't be stupid enough to let the bodies be found!" Molly said, then frowned. "That didn't quite come out right."

"Molly I realize you're trying to help, but perhaps you could refrain?" Sherlock said.

"Where were you between the hours of 1 and 5 a.m. this morning?" Donovan asked.

Sherlock fixed her with a stare. "I was with my girlfriend."

Lestrade looked at Molly. "Molly?"

She nodded. "Yes, he was. We were in bed. No, I mean: we were sleeping…"

"Yeah, I understand, Molly," Lestrade said hastily. "Did you wake up at any time during the night and notice Sherlock missing?"

She shook her head. "No. I didn't wake up during the night."

"So he could've gotten up, left and come back, then" Donovan said coolly.

"OR he could've spent the night beside me like he usually does," Molly said, equally coolly.

"Sherlock where were you the night Alden Wodehouse was murdered?" Lestrade asked.

"I was at 221B with John."

"All night?" Lestrade looked at John. "Can you vouch for seeing him all night?"

"No," John said angrily. "I went to bed around midnight. I saw him the next morning around nine. Look, surely to God you don't think Sherlock-"

"It doesn't matter what they think, John, Sherlock said softly. "They have to pursue every possibility, and I am a logical suspect."

"But this is all Moriarty's work!" John exclaimed furiously. "You saw the information on the assassins, you know what happened!"

"But there's still no Moriarty, is there?" Donovan asked, and this time she didn't sound smug. "We've got nothing more to go on right now, John. We have to look at every possibility, just like Holmes said."

"Well at least you're not calling him Freak anymore," John muttered.

"He's not quite as much of a freak as I thought," she murmured, glancing at Molly. "Still creepy, though."

Lestrade sighed. "Well, that's enough to keep you from needing to come in for questioning for now, Sherlock, but it's not enough to rule you out."

"Understood," Sherlock replied, his voice distant as he concentrated. "The boyfriend or husband is always the first suspect."

"Yeah, you know how this goes as well as I do," Lestrade said. "We're working on tracing the card. There are just so many places cards like that could've been ordered from though."

Sherlock moved to Steve's body and began a more thorough investigation. He leaned close to the body and inhaled deeply. He picked up the dead man's arm by holding his coat sleeve. "Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan, if you're finished for now, John and I have to go. Moriarty left a vital clue here."

"He did?" Everyone else exclaimed in unison.

Sherlock looked at them, surprised. "Of course. Don't you know?"

"No," they replied in unison again. Sherlock sighed.

"You don't smell it?"

"Smell what?"John asked.

"He has the smell of a pub on him. But not just any pub. One where they smoke cigarettes and serve fish and chips and-" he paused and inhaled again- "Blue Moon Pale Ale. An American beer. In a bottle. You can see a faint trace of it on his coat. Have you questioned his friends?"

"Just before I phoned you. His bandmates said they rehearsed until about eleven and then he said he was going to get something to eat. Wanted to go alone: he seemed excited so they thought he was going to meet someone. They offered him a lift but he wanted to walk."

"So he didn't have far to go," Sherlock murmured. "Get me the address of where they rehearsed."

Lestrade checked and rattled off an address. Sherlock smiled. "I know exactly where he went, then. Molly, I'll see you at seven. Lestrade, let me know if you have more questions. I'll let you know what we find. Donovan, a… pleasure as always. John, let's go."

Lestrade glanced at Molly as Sherlock strode off, John hurrying to keep pace. "Does it bother you, him just running off like that?"

Molly shook her head. "It makes him happy, having work. I want him to be happy. I know how he feels about me."

"Do you?" Donovan asked.

Molly glanced at her with a frown. "Yes." She picked up a scalpel. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."

The Grotto was a favorite hangout of musicians, artists, and writers. Small enough to be cozy but large enough to accommodate about 100 patrons, it was also a favorite hangout of groupies and for an upscale level of prostitutes. Very discreet, of course, and not a huge ring that branched off into drug or slave trafficking so it was by and large left alone. Sherlock knew Lestrade didn't know about it, and he had no intention of telling him. The girls that worked the bar were valuable sources of information.

Sherlock knew the bar had odd hours, but he was still surprised to see it was open at 1 p.m. John glanced over at him. "The Grotto? I've never heard of it."

"It's a well-kept secret of sorts," Sherlock said absently. "This is the first time I've seen it open so early. Still should be able to find some clues."

"What, had you planned on breaking in?" John asked, then sighed. "Why do I keep asking ridiculous questions?"

"I'm not certain; however, you technically just asked two in a row," Sherlock said with a smirk.

John scowled. Sherlock pulled the door handle and they stepped in.

The bar was dimly lit, the grey London day seeping in a little sun through the clouds. A tall, ginger man stood behind the bar polishing some glasses. A few men and women were working on laptops or chatting quietly on mobiles. One woman sat in the back sipping whiskey: expensively but sexily dressed, blonde hair halfway down her back.

Sherlock frowned. He knew that bearing. Irene.

Before he could move toward her, the barman glanced up at him and John. His expression was a combination of alarm and anger. "Oi! I thought I told you not to come back in here, you git!" He barked, glaring at Sherlock.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked.

"You heard me. After what happened last night I'll be lucky if anyone shows up tonight. I told you, I don't care if you think Steve shagged your girlfriend, I don't want trouble! So settle up with him someplace else like you did last night, coz he's not here and I bloody doubt he'll be back!"

John frowned. "Sherlock?"

"You're lucky I didn't call the coppers on you last night. Now leave before I do!" The man said, his voice rising.

Irene turned and sauntered over to them. "No need for that, sweetie," she purred in a thick Cockney accent. "He's moved on now from that cheating tramp. He's here for me. And brought a friend as well. Should be an interesting day. We'll be going now," she said, slipping an arm around each man and steering them out the door.

Once outside John turned in shock.  _"Irene?"_

"The one and only, darling doctor man," she grinned. "Keep walking in case he changes his mind."

"I thought-Mycroft-bloody Hell," John swore. "Doesn't anyone actually die around here anymore?"

"I don't recommend trying it," Irene advised him in a conversational tone. "Risky business."

John struggled to get his head on straight as they headed away. "OK. So you're alive. Good. That's good." He suddenly frowned and glared at Sherlock. "You knew. All this time you bloody knew!"

"I couldn't tell you," Sherlock said softly. "She needs to remain dead to be safe."

"You know what? You've not been able to tell me a whole fucking lot of things in the past year or two!" John said angrily. "And I'm supposed to be, what, OK with that? Well I'm not, Sherlock!"

"People's lives were at stake," Sherlock said, stopping the three of them and staring hard at his best friend. "Do you think I wanted to keep her being alive from you? Or keep  _me_  being alive from you? I had no choice, John!"

John knew that, intellectually. But he was too hurt. It was like Reichenbach all over again: everything being kept from him. "I've had enough secrets and lies for one day," he said, pulling free from Irene and turning to walk away.

"John, please!"

The almost-sob he heard in Sherlock's voice made him stop.

"If we don't stop Moriarty, he's going to kill. Maybe me, maybe Molly, maybe thousands of people. He's been blackmailing me for six months now with the threat of killing you, Mrs. Hudson, and other people by setting off bombs he's randomly hidden around London unless I do what he wants."

John slowly turned and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were glassy as though he was struggling to hold back tears. "He was monitoring me with the mobile. I told you everything I could without violating my agreement with him. He… he's behind my relationship with Molly. He fell in love with Molly when he was playing 'Jim from IT' but she rejected him because of me. He wants me to fall in love with Molly as well, and then he'll reveal his final move of the game."

"My God," Irene said softly.

John studied Sherlock. "Are you in love with Molly?"

Up until even a day ago, Sherlock would have said no. Instead he replied: "I don't know. I don't know… what it feels like, to be in love."

"And she doesn't know anything." John shook his head. "Oh, my God. Never mind Moriarty, Sherlock,  _this_  will kill her if she finds out."

Sherlock felt a single tear slide down his face. It burned and froze him at the same time. "Right now there's nothing I can do," he said. "I can't…John,  _please_. Please. If not for my sake, do it for Molly's."

John felt his own eyes watering up. He scrubbed at them furiously and cleared his throat. His voice was as rough as Sherlock's when he said: "I suppose I can punch you later on just as easily as I could now."

Sherlock managed a laugh. "No hug first?"

"If you're lucky," John retorted. He smiled faintly then sobered. "Sherlock… Moriarty obviously has someone impersonating you again. If that man in the bar calls the police and describes us, Lestrade will know it's you. You'll be the prime suspect."

"That's not all," Irene said, and both men turned to her. "Moriarty has something going on in a warehouse in Islington. I haven't been able to find out what but several of his men are going in at odd times during the night. They carry things in but don't ever bring anything out."

"Islington? That's not the same warehouse, then," John said, and Sherlock frowned.

"Molly grew up in Islington. Moriarty likes to come full circle with his games. He liked me going to the pool where Carl Powers died and he used "Rich Brook" as his actor name. This warehouse is where he's planning on ending it. What's the address?"

When Irene told him, Sherlock frowned. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket.

"The first murder was here, the first warehouse was here, and the second murder was here," he said, plotting points on the paper with a pen. "The Islington warehouse is here."

John frowned. "All I see are a bunch of dots, Sherlock."

"That is because you are not  _connecting_  them, John," Sherlock said. He made two marks on the paper. Irene and John both gasped.

It formed the shape of a heart.

"I'll burn you," Sherlock said softly. "I will burn  _the heart_  out of you. Like it got burned out of him."

He looked up at Irene. "What are they taking into the warehouse?"

"It's all been in unmarked boxes," she replied. "They've been building something, though. You can hear the sounds from across the street. Hammering, drilling, metal… the only thing that wasn't in a plain box was a sculpture. They carried that in as is."

"A sculpture of what?"

"A copy of  _The Lovers_."

"Molly's favorite," Sherlock said, and scowled at the look of surprise on John's face. "Oh, for goodness sake, John, I have remembered everything Molly has told me since this started. I didn't delete anything because I wasn't certain what might be useful." He frowned. "This is a movie."

"What?" Irene asked.

"The last time it was fairy tales. This time it's a movie. And like the stages of loss except the stages of love. Denial, anger, bargaining, and acceptance. I've given him everything but the acceptance. He thinks it will come very soon. He's preparing for it. He's building the set for the final scene. That's what all the construction is for. But what is the scene?"

"Well, wouldn't it be the acceptance? Where you tell Molly you love her?" John asked. "But if you don't know, then something will have to happen to change that. That's how all romance movies are."

"And the usual thing that makes that happen is-" Irene chimed in-

"-The boy thinks he is losing or has lost the girl," Sherlock said softly.

Sherlock's mobile rang at that moment. He answered it. "Yes, Lestrade?"

John and Irene saw his face change. Sherlock was already pale but now he looked like death warmed over.

"On the way," he said.

"Sherlock?" John asked as Sherlock pocketed his mobile.

"It's Molly," he said, voice low and tense. "She collapsed in the morgue."

 


	19. Realize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a movie-worthy epiphany, a daring escape is made, and Sherlock figures out the game.

On the way to see Molly, Sherlock filled John in on everything else. Irene went to see what more she could try and discover about the warehouse. John shook his head. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. I don't even know where to start."

"Never mind that," Sherlock said sharply. "We have to figure out what he's done to Molly. Her life and the game depend on it."

Sherlock all but ran to Molly's room. She lay unconscious, her vital signs stable but weak. Lestrade was there talking with a nurse. It was the same nurse that been helping Molly the day Sherlock had questioned her: the first time he'd held her hand and told her he was sorry. Mary's sister, Michelle. The nurse looked at them, face grave. "John," she said. "Mr. Holmes."

"Michelle," John said. "What's going on?"

"They can't figure out what's wrong with her," Lestrade said.

"Have they run a toxicology report?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course we have," Michelle said tartly. "We've drawn blood, taken X-rays, and administered a broad-spectrum antibiotic. Nothing is helping."

Sherlock looked at Molly. Her skin was pale and she looked… weak, somehow. The sight of her like that made his stomach sink.

Her machine beeped at that moment. Michelle looked at it and frowned. "Her vitals are weakening. If this keeps up she'll need life support within a few hours." She sighed. "I have to make rounds. I'll be back as soon as I can to check on her."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I, ah, I'll just be downstairs getting a coffee. John, do you want to join me?"

"What? Oh, right," John said. "We'll be back soon, Sherlock. Call me if anything changes."

Sherlock nodded his eyes still on Molly. He barely registered John and Lestrade going out the door. He pulled a chair up to sit beside Molly, his eyes never leaving her face.

Molly was in danger of being seriously ill. And it was Moriarty's doing. But he'd promised he wouldn't kill Molly. That did not preclude putting her in a coma, however. Not death but close enough.

Sherlock slowly reached over and twined Molly's limp fingers in his. She did not respond with even a flicker of eyelids. He closed his eyes and went deep into his mind palace.

He opened the door to Molly's room there. Once it had been a modest room, with a door that was only open a crack. Still quite a testimony to Molly: few people had a room there, and her door was open as wide as anyone's except John's. After Reichenbach and his faked suicide, the door had opened wider and the room was brighter, filled with more information about the petite pathologist.

Once Moriarty had returned and blackmailed him into this relationship, Molly's room had grown to about five times its previous size. Every detail he'd learned about her in the past 6 months or so was there. There were curtains on the windows now, and double French doors opening to overlook a lush garden. There was sunlight and the scent of roses and antiseptics, and warmth. Sometimes Sherlock went there to calm himself, center himself, feel comfort. There was no higher praise he could give any woman than that.

The thought of that room, of Molly, fading into a bleak gray emptiness brought a pain that no amount of running to other rooms could erase. Everything of Molly was here. Her giggle, her smile, the way she nuzzled her nose against his, her surprisingly astute observations about people, her soft warmth curled against him as they slept or talked…

Sherlock was jolted out of his mind palace by the feeling of a wet warmth on his face. His fingertips came up and touched his cheek. Tears. He was crying. The thought of being without her now left an ache inside him that no amount of scorn towards sentiment could erase. If he lost her, he would lose some part of himself.

And that's when he knew.

It was all part of Moriarty's plan. It always had been. The way that made a person face their feelings, their fears, and realize the plain and simple truth. The prospect of losing someone so close.

Someone that you…loved.

There it was.

He could lie to himself, he could be angry at how it happened, but none of that would make it any less true.

He, Sherlock Holmes, was in love with Molly Hooper.

It was time.

He accessed his website with his mobile. There, for all the world to see, he wrote: "why is the measure of love, loss?"

Two minutes later his mobile rang.

He answered it. "You win," he said without preamble.

"What do I win, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked.

"You were right. I am capable of love and I love Molly."

"Are you sure?" Moriarty asked, voice somewhere between smug and pleased.

"Don't ask me what you know is true," Sherlock said flatly.

"Yes, I suppose you do. Right. Leave her room and walk down the left corridor. Turn right and go down that hall. You'll see the door for the stairs. Walk down one flight. On the underside at the juncture of the steps, taped on the right, you'll find two swabs and two syringes. Inject the one in black into your arm, then inject the one in blue in Molly's abdomen."

"Why am I injecting myself with something?" Sherlock asked.

"It's the antidote, stupid. The drugs in the chocolates have been protecting you but those chemicals are almost completely out of your system now. Otherwise you'll end up like Molly in a few more weeks."

"When did you give me a poison" Sherlock demanded, even as he rose and headed out the door.

"I didn't. Well, strictly speaking. You gave it to yourself. Remember the little dots on Molly that looked like moles? That formed an S and an M?"

"I touched them and they disappeared," Sherlock said.

"Your touch triggered the poison. You administered it to Molly and to yourself when you did that. Very slow acting, took my boys months to make that stuff. Clever, wasn't it?"

"Very," Sherlock agreed hollowly, having reached the stairs. He went to the spot Moriarty had instructed and reached his hand up. Sure enough, two syringes were taped there. He pulled them off and slipped them into his coat pocket. "Now what?" He asked as he headed back to Molly's room.

"I'll be in touch within a few hours. You might want to arrange for some fast transportation. You'll be needing it in, oh, less than eight minutes. By the way: AWWWW!"

Sherlock dialed Mycroft. "Brother dear. I'm rather in need of a fast, secure ride. Can you be outside Bart's in, oh, six minutes?"

"Is it time?" Mycroft asked.

"Almost. I'll explain later. I suspect I will be a suspect, by the way."

"That is nothing new, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, and disconnected.

Sherlock went back into Molly's room. He quickly injected himself, then called John. "Come back to Molly's room,  **now** ," he said. "Without Lestrade if you can, but if not, let him come along."

"Sherlock?" John asked, bewildered. "What's-"

Sherlock ended the call and pocketed his mobile. He raised Molly's hospital gown to expose her abdomen just as Michelle walked in.

"What are you doing!" She yelled, seeing the syringe. She came at him to stop him but he pushed her away, hard, and swabbed Molly with the alcohol prep. As Michelle got to her feet, stunned, he injected Molly and slammed the door to the room shut.

"What the hell did you do!" Michelle exclaimed.

"I gave her the antidote," Sherlock said. "She was poisoned."

"Poisoned? How did… oh, my God," Michelle gasped. "It was you. You did this to her!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped.

"It had to be you! How else would you know? How would you have the antidote?" Michelle said. She pointed. "I remember that day. I heard you tell Molly you were sorry, that you'd stop it. You'd been… abusing her, hadn't you? Or you're mental. Two of her exes have died and you probably killed them!"

"Stop this!" Sherlock snapped.

"I'm getting security and the police!" Michelle said, backing away from him towards the door, mouth open to scream.

Sherlock nodded… and promptly knocked her cold.

John and Lestrade came in about the time Sherlock was scooping Molly up in his arms.

"What the hell is going on!" John exclaimed. He saw Michelle, unconscious on the floor, and stared in horror. "What did you do, Sherlock?"

"No time right now. Moriarty is making his move soon," Sherlock said, carrying Molly towards the door. "Lestrade, that women is going to accuse me of a number of things when she comes to. Stall for as long as you can. I'll be in touch."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" Lestrade growled. "I'm a detective inspector! I can't just let you-"

He saw the look on Sherlock's face and sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Fuck. GO, already!"

"Open the doors for me as we go," Sherlock ordered John. "We're taking the stairs."

"Oh, my God. You knocked out Mary's sister. I am never going to hear the end of this," John groaned as he hurried ahead.

"Hey," an orderly said, seeing them as they entered the stairwell. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Is that the only word people can say today?" Sherlock huffed as he ran.

"Hurry up or there will be worse ones," John gasped as they reached the main floor door.

"Get out your gun," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"There will be guards waiting. Get out your gun!"

"Oh, my God," John groaned as he drew his gun.

They ran into the lobby. "Nobody move, please!" John yelled at the guards and other employees standing ready. He covered Sherlock as they headed for the door.

"John, Sherlock," said a voice. It was Mike Stamford. "Come on, now. Stop this. Whatever is going on-"

"Mike, I'm really sorry, but there's no time to explain," John said. He swallowed. "Also, I've got a gun."

Mike nodded. "Yes. I see that."

"John!" Sherlock snapped.

"Right. Sorry. It will all make sense soon, Mike. I think."

"NOW, John!" Sherlock bellowed.

John opened the door, gun still pointed at the room, and Sherlock ran out with Molly. John went out backwards behind him, down the steps, where Mycroft's signature black car was waiting.

They got in and closed the door. "Where are we going?" Mycroft asked calmly as they pulled away.

"Somewhere safe," Sherlock said. He cradled Molly in his lap, nestling her head on his shoulder. His eyes were wild and had a look in them John had never seen before.

"Location seven," Mycroft told the driver.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Moriarty poisoned her. And me as well, except the drugs in the chocolates were protecting me. I injected Molly with the antidote just as the nurse walked in, so she naturally thought I was the one who'd done this to Molly."

"And she'll tell Lestrade that," John finished.

"She also overheard me telling Molly I was sorry and I was going to stop this, when this all began. I was talking about Moriarty, but the nurse now thinks I was apologizing for hurting Molly."

"And you've just officially become the number one suspect," John sighed. "AND kidnapped Molly. No, that won't look mental at ALL."

"Sherlock?"

All three men stared. Molly's eyes were open, though a little unfocused. She was staring at Sherlock. "What happened? Am I okay?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Yes, Molly," he said, holding her tight and burying his face in her hair. "You're going to be fine."

 

Mycroft's car took them to what John reckoned must be some sort of safe house, away from the eyes of the CCTV and the police. It was a small, nondescript abode that looked like every other house in the community, with iron gates and high walls concealing everything from potential prying eyes. Sherlock carried a sleeping Molly inside and into a bedroom, and as an astonished John watched, Sherlock tucked Molly into bed, absently smoothing a lock of hair away from her face after he pulled up the duvet. Sherlock turned, saw John watching, and said nothing. But his eyes spoke for him.

They left Molly to rest and made their way into the kitchen, where Mycroft sat with a laptop open, typing rapidly away and glancing at his mobile at the same time. He glanced up at Sherlock. "I trust Doctor Hooper is recovering?" He asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Then the time has come for you to figure out the game," Mycroft said smoothly. "I have the schematics of the warehouse Miss Adler informed you about, and a team standing ready to do whatever is necessary. It's time to finish this, Sherlock."

"Agreed, brother dear," Sherlock said. He began to pace as John helped himself to tea and sat in the chair opposite Mycroft. "What has happened since we arrived at the hospital?" Sherlock asked Mycroft.

"A man by the name of Paul Rodgers has come forward and claimed that you assaulted him. He just started working at St. Bart's last week. According to his statement, he had been talking with Doctor Hooper off and on over the week, and intended to ask her out. However, he alleges that late last night he was assaulted by you and that you told him to stay away from Molly. He has injuries consistent with a man of your build and skill physically attacking him. He also claims to have been able to record some of the conversation on his mobile."

"Can you get an audio?" John asked.

Mycroft flicked his eyes to John in patient amusement. He pressed a button.

A man's voice, frightened, high-pitched, filled the room. "Leave me alone! I didn't know about you and Molly! Get away from me!"

"The only thing I'd like to get is my hands around your neck and squeeze," Sherlock snarled.

"I didn't do anything with her! I swear! I was just going to ask her out!"

"Liar!" Sherlock shouted.

There was the sickening sound of the crunching of bone, and a mobile clattering to the ground. Then the recording ended.

John frowned. "Obviously it's fake."

"Fake, yes. Obviously: not as much," Mycroft said. "That is Sherlock's voice, and Moriarty has used a master audio technician to put this together. He recorded Sherlock almost continuously for over six months. He could put together any number of these and use them in different ways."

Sherlock stopped pacing. "That's why he wanted the mobile back. He wasn't recording me on his mobile. He was recording me on mine. Everything he's done has set me up to look like the stereotypical jealous boyfriend."

"Someone who's known to have a difficult personality, never been in a relationship," John offered.

"Someone who might not have the ability to control previously unawakened emotions," Mycroft added.

"Setting me up, but for what? Molly doesn't know this man; she can prove he's lying. None of these crimes are significant enough for me to stay in jail long even if they could be pinned on me," Sherlock said with a frown. "He's set all of this up, this picture perfect relationship, and then introduced conflict. Just like one of those movies. And the man is afraid he's going to lose the woman, and is insane with anger, jealousy, and love. There's only one way he can make sure she never loves anyone else, and that's to-"

Sherlock stopped talking. He paled. John and Mycroft stared at him. "Sherlock?" John asked.

He stared at them, his best friend and his brother, as everything finished clicking horrifyingly into place. His mind raced. There wasn't much time.

"I know how he wants to end the movie," Sherlock said. "There's something I need you to do," he said to Mycroft

"What?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock grabbed a notepad and pen from Mycroft's briefcase. He furiously scribbled something down, then handed the paper to Mycroft. "I need these items right away," he said.

Mycroft looked at the list and frowned. "Your life is in danger and you want to play with a chemistry set?"

"Just do as I ask!" Sherlock snapped. Then he added: "Please."

Mycroft sighed. "I'll take care of it, little brother." He left the room.

"Sherlock?" John asked. "Tell me what's going on."

Sherlock shook his head. "It would be best if I-"

"NO!" John shouted, launching himself at Sherlock and shoving him back against the wall. He clenched Sherlock's coat in his fists, breathing heavily, eyes blazing. "No," he repeated, quieter but just as forcefully. "You did that to me once, Sherlock. There is no fucking way I'm ever going to let you do it again, you hear me? I don't need to be protected, I'm not an idiot or a child!"

"John," Sherlock said weakly. John shook his head.

"I watched you  **die** , Sherlock," John whispered hoarsely. "My best friend in the whole world and I watched you die. And for a long time after I wished that I had died with you, because I couldn't save you. I don't care what Moriarty is doing, I don't care if I have to shoot someone, get shot, stabbed, or strapped with Semtex. You are not ever, EVER leaving me like that again. Do you understand?"

Sherlock's eyes met his. Both of them were breathing unsteadily and shaking. Sherlock nodded. "All right. All right, John."

"Promise me," John said, voice deadly quiet.

"John-"

"Promise me, dammit!" John shouted.

After a long moment Sherlock took a deep breath. "I promise."

John nodded. "Good. That's… good, Sherlock." He released his friend and drew a deep breath of his own. "Now. Tell me what Moriarty's got planned and how I can help."

Molly woke up feeling weak and confused. The last thing she remembered was going to open a drawer. Then everything had gone fuzzy, then black. She didn't remember anything until she'd briefly woke up in the back of Mycroft's car, with Sherlock cradling her in his arms.

Sherlock! She sat up, looking around her. She was alone in a blank, white room. "Sherlock?" She called out uncertainly, and heard his familiar footsteps coming towards the door.

He opened the door, his light blue eyes scanning her as he made his way over to her with a glass of water. He sat beside her. "How do you feel?" He asked as he handed her the glass.

Molly took several deep drinks before she sat the glass down on a bedside table. "Weak, but all right, I guess. Sherlock, what's happened?"

"Moriarty poisoned you," Sherlock told her. "I gave you the antidote."

"Poisoned me? Why?" Molly asked, confused. "Why would he care about me?"

"Oh, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said softly. "You really don't see yourself clearly, do you?"

"Tell me what's wrong," Molly said, scared and worried now from the look on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock reached down and took one of her hands in his. "Do you trust me, Molly?"

She blinked. "Of course I do."

"Would you trust me against all the odds? Against everything you thought you knew?" He asked, his other hand coming up to cup her face. "Would you trust me with your life?"

Molly nodded "Yes. I always have and I always will." She brought a hand up to touch Sherlock's.

He gripped her hand tighter. "Good."

"What's going on?"

"It's time, Molly," Sherlock said softly. "Time to end this game once and for all."


	20. Last Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly meet Moriarty, who reveals the full extent of his plan. Sherlock is forced to make an agonizing choice.

Molly sat beside Sherlock in the taxi, watching him, trying to keep from twisting her hands where they rested in her lap. He was typing furiously on two different mobiles: the one Moriarty had given him and a burner phone. He hadn't told her anything except that Moriarty wanted them to meet him somewhere. The less she knew, the better, he said. When she had started to protest he'd said: "Molly, you said you trust me." And she'd nodded and let it go.

But she was scared. How could she not be? Moriarty would've been the end of Sherlock once before, if Sherlock hadn't figured out his plan in time to put one of his own in place. Sherlock seemed… wary, focused but distracted at the same time, and she knew that he was right. Whatever was about to happen, it would be the end of… something.

As he could read her thoughts, Sherlock lowered the mobile in his hand and pressed the other over top of hers. "Molly," he said softly. "Remember…" he hesitated, then said: "remember that you count. Always." He put his mobile in his pocket, and the burner in hers.

Molly nodded, frowning. She didn't have time to say anything else, though, as they'd arrived at their destination. She frowned. What were they doing at an empty warehouse? Obviously it wasn't empty, if Moriarty had something to do with it. But what?

They got out and Sherlock paid the driver. As the taxi sped off, Sherlock turned to Molly and took her hand. They approached the door and Sherlock tried the handle. It opened easily and they slipped inside, closing it behind them.

S&M S&M S&M S&M S&M S&M S&M S&M

"Anything yet?" John asked Mycroft. The other Holmes shook his head.

"They have just arrived. For now, we must listen and wait for Sherlock's signal."

"Are you sure this is going to work?" John asked.

"As sure as I am of anything else," was Mycroft's reply.

"Why do I not feel any better?" John muttered.

Mycroft was silent.

S&M S&M S&M S&M S&M S&M S&M

The inside of the warehouse was warm. There was nothing in the immediate area where they entered, just metal and silence. Then, faintly, Molly could see there was a light far down on the left. She clutched Sherlock's hand a little tighter, and he gave her fingers a quick squeeze before they walked towards it.

When they entered the second door, they saw that there was another short corridor and then the light. Entering the room, Molly gasped.

A dozen white candles lit the room. They surrounded what looked like a shrine. A shrine to  **her**. Photo after photo of her was pinned onto what looked like a cloth-covered altar. Some color, some black and white. She recognized pictures from years ago and some from just the past week. There was cards, necklaces, bit of things of hers, small things missing over the past few years that she'd just assumed she'd lost. Pages torn from old notebooks and her diary were there, too. In one corner was a sofa like the one at 221B. Next to it was a copy of Rodin's "The Lovers."

Molly thought she was going to be ill.

Sherlock took everything in as Molly struggled to stay calm. There was a door on the other side of the room and he started towards it. Molly gripped his hand harder. "Sherlock, what is this?" She whispered. "Why's he done this?"

Sherlock brushed his free hand over her face. "Let's find out."

The door led down another hallway and they walked on. Finally they reached a dark room. Sherlock slid his hand along the wall, found a light switch, and flipped it on.

As soon as he did, the room lit up. And from an archway on the other side, with a small metal black box in his hand, Moriarty emerged.

"Well, well. Here we are again, Sherlock. And this time you brought a guest." Moriarty, elegant as always in one of his suits, strolled in. He smiled at Molly. "Hello, darlin.' It's nice to see you again."

"What've you done? Why have you got a…room for me in here?" Molly blurted out.

Moriarty's eyebrows rose. "Oh, my. Not so mousy anymore, are you, Molly? And no stammer, either. You've been a good influence on her, Sherlock. And oddly enough, she's been one on you. You knew how to exist, to survive, but Molly's taught you how to live. Rather like John. Speaking of John: how are he and Nurse Morstan doing? Lovely ring he bought her: I think he's going to keep this one."

"Why did you tell me to meet you here with Molly?" Sherlock asked expressionlessly.

"Because it's time, of course. This has been a  **lovely game**  but now it must end." He turned the control box in his hand around almost absently, then looked up and smiled. "All good movies need a stirring song to finish them off, though. And this time it's my turn." He beckoned with a finger. "Come here, Molly."

Molly froze in fear, looking from him to Sherlock.

"It's our big number, darlin.' Come on."

"It's all right, Molly," Sherlock said softly. "Go on."

Molly stared at Sherlock in shock, as if to ask 'in what universe is this all right?." Nonetheless, she took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly walked over to Moriarty, who beamed at her.

"Good. Stay over there, loverboy," Moriarty warned Sherlock. "It's my turn to get the girl. If only for a few minutes."

And to her astonishment, music began and Moriarty turned to look at Molly, smiled, and started to sing.

 

 

_Well, I wish I could kill you, savor the sight_

_Get into my car, drive into the night_

_Then lie as I scream to the Heavens above_

_That I was the last one you ever loved.  
_

_But your skin... is like... porcelain..._

 

The song ended. Moriarty looked at her almost affectionately, then kissed her cheek. "Go on," he told her softly.

Breathing ragged, hand clenched at her sides, Molly turned and fled back over to Sherlock.

"So now you know, Molly," Moriarty said. "Well. You know that I loved you. But that's only the beginning, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"What do you mean?" Molly asked when Sherlock was silent.

"Oh, Molly Hooper. I've been a bit naughty," Moriarty said, walking in a slow circle. "You see, when I found out Sherlock was still alive, I decided I could solve two problems at once. Him, and you. I've always had a thing for you, Molly. I don't honestly know why. I think it's because you're something I could never be, even if I wanted to. And I admire you for that. It's stupid of you, don't get me wrong, but I admire it."

"So I thought: what should I do. What could I give to dear Molly that would really make her happy before she shuffled off this mortal coil? The answer was Sherlock, of course. The only man that's been in your heart since the first time he was a bastard to you. Never have figured out why you women like bastards, but lucky for both me and Sherlock that you do, I suppose.  **I've** certainly never lacked for company when I wanted it."

"What do you mean, give me Sherlock?" Molly asked, even as she felt dread and despair twisting her insides to pieces.

"My greatest game yet. I've been blackmailing your beloved detective for months now with bombs scattered across London. It was simple: just like a movie. Boy meets girl, girl loves boy, boy is a bastard, madman orders boy to date girl and fall in love with her. You're welcome, by the way," Moriarty added with a smile. "I'll make sure I cross it off your list."

Molly paled. "You… you mean, all this time I've been with Sherlock was because of you. It's.. it's all been a lie. He never…he doesn't…"

"No, Molly, don't you see? That's the beauty of my plan!" Moriarty exclaimed gleefully. "He  **does**  love you. Really and truly. Oh, he wanted to fight it at first, don't get me wrong. But he came to realize that the surrender was much nicer than the battles."

Molly stared at Sherlock. "Sherlock? Is this true?"

Sherlock looked at her, at the pain and confusion and doubt that was now so clearly in her face. "Yes," he said softly. "It's all true. I'm sorry, Molly."

Molly looked back and forth between them. "So… you gave me Sherlock. And now what? You said two problems. Are you going to kill us both now?"

"Kill you? Of course not, Molly. I could never do that," Moriarty said softly. "And I promised Sherlock I wouldn't, so, no, I'm not going to kill you."

Then he smiled.

"Sherlock is."

"What?" Molly shrieked.

"Sherlock is, of course. Poor thing. He just can't stand all this attention you've been getting from men recently. The jealousy has driven him to it," Moriarty said with a sigh.

"You've set me up," Sherlock said. "This is my secret hideaway. The shrine to Molly, the attacks, the murders… all me. You've been working behind the scenes all this time, plotting and planting things to make it look like me. The drugs, the mobile, even making sure Michelle Morstan heard something that could be taken wrong."

"And now you're going to end it by killing her," Moriarty said, smiling again. "It's the only way, isn't it?"

" _Well, I wish I could kill you, savor the sight, get in to my car, drive into the night, then lie as I scream to the Heavens above, that I was the last one you ever loved_ ," Sherlock said with a bitter laugh. "That song wasn't just from you to Molly. It's from me to her as well."

" **Just**  so," Moriarty said.

"What? No!" Molly shouted. "He won't… you can't…"

"Well, no, technically, I can't," Moriarty admitted. "But if he doesn't, Molly darlin', I push this button. And thousands of people will die. And you don't want that, do you? Hasn't Sherlock already sacrificed enough from the last little game we played?"

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped.

"Besides, I gave you a going away present," Moriarty said. "Over six months with the man you love. Some people go their entire lives without getting that." A shadow crossed his face and disappeared just as quickly. "Go on," he said to Sherlock. "We both know how this ends."

"Strangulation?" Sherlock asked.

"Perfect for a crime of passion," Moriarty said.

"No," Molly said. "Sherlock…"

"There's no other way, Molly," Sherlock said softly. "I'm sorry. But he is telling the truth. If I don't, he'll kill thousands of people."

Molly felt sick again, her brain reeling from trying to comprehend the turn of events. "What about Sherlock? Are you going to kill him, too? Murder-suicide?" She asked.

"Nice idea, but no. I don't want Sherlock dead now. Do I, Sherlock?"

"No," Sherlock said. "He wants me to kill you, then turn myself in and go to prison for your murder. Spend my life behind bars, knowing what happened to you."

"Much better than murder-suicide," Moriarty said. "That's  **so**  overdone in the movies. Off you go, then," he told Sherlock.

"Wait!" Sherlock said desperately.

"Oh, now, what?" Moriarty groaned.

"I want to say goodbye to Molly first. Kiss her one more time." Sherlock's voice grew hoarse. "That's what happens in the movies, isn't it? There's a last kiss?"

Moriarty smiled. "Fair enough. Of course. I'll go stand over there. You have two minutes."

As he walked away, Sherlock turned to Molly. She stared at him numbly, unable to believe that he was about to kill her. But there wasn't another way. She couldn't let innocent people die, even if it meant she was about to die at the hands of the man she loved.

Sherlock pulled her close. "I do love you, Molly Kathleen Hooper," he whispered in her ear.

Molly felt her eyes fill with tears. "Sherlock…"

"Always remember that," he said, pulling back, eyes boring into hers.

Then he kissed her. It was unlike any kiss they had shared before it. It was passionate, desperate, apologetic, and painful. Molly felt tears running down her face, spilling onto his, mixed with his own. She kissed him the way she'd wanted to the first day he'd come into her morgue, all rude and brilliant, with something in his eyes that had told her he needed someone more than he'd ever be able to admit.

When the kiss ended, Sherlock stared at her hard, wiping off his face with the back of one hand. "Breathe, Molly," he said. "Take one last deep breath."

Molly, sobbing, somehow managed to take in a gasping gulp of air. As she exhaled, Sherlock placed his hands firmly around her neck.

"Live for me," Molly whispered. "Live for me, Sherlock."

"I love you," he whispered again as his hands tightened. He began to squeeze, knowing precisely where to put his hands. Molly gasped, her face turning color as she reflexively tried to get away. Sherlock kept squeezing until Molly's eyes rolled back, closed, and she slumped in his hands. Sherlock gently eased her limp body to the floor, then turned to look at Moriarty.

"It's finished," he said, unable to hide the pain in his voice. "She's dead."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Porcelain," Better Than Ezra, copyright 1995, Electra Records


	21. Going Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game ends for good, and Sherlock takes a stand.

Moriarty shook his head and sighed. "Such a shame." He motioned for Sherlock to back away from Molly. He approached and stood looking down at her for a few seconds, then looked back at Sherlock. "But that's what life is all about, isn't it?" He asked, with a regretful smile. "Nothing but love stories and tournaments of lies." He walked away again, towards the door.

"I kept my part of the bargain," Sherlock said venomously. "Now keep yours."

"Of course," Moriarty agreed smoothly. He tossed Sherlock the control device with one hand and took out a gun in the other.

"Now tell me where you hid the bombs," Sherlock ordered, and Moriarty broke into hysterical laughter.

Sherlock watched him, frowning. "Why are you laughing?"

Moriarty didn't answer, just kept laughing so hard he almost dropped the gun. Sherlock glared at him. " **Why**  are you laughing?" He demanded.

Moriarty finally stopped, wiping the tears from his eyes with his free hand. "Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. I can't believe it."

"Can't believe what?" Sherlock asked. "What the hell are you playing at?"

Moriarty gasped and held back another laugh. "Oh, you're going to love this. Really. You will." He wiped his eyes again and smiled. "Well, you see… there are no bombs."

Sherlock stared at him. "What?"

"There. Are. No. Bombs!" Moriarty shouted.

Sherlock kept staring at him. Moriarty looked incensed.

"Did you really think I'd be that stupid? To plant bombs all over England? Something that big could be traced eventually, or even if it wasn't, it would cause me just as many problems as it would you." He shook his head and gave a little bitter laugh. "You really thought I'd do that? Blow up half of London? Oh, ordinary Sherlock Holmes. Fool you twice, honey!"

Sherlock stared at him in fury. "So all this time…"

"Haven't planted a single bomb," Moriarty said with a shake of his head. He smirked. "I knew you'd believe me. I told you once before: that's your weakness. Everything has to be  **sooo**  intricate and clever with you! A puzzle for the great Sherlock Holmes to solve! Well I gave you the puzzle of a lifetime, Sherlock. And you failed it."

He took a few steps back. "I'd best be off now. Got to finish up a few things. And you'll want to make your phone call in private."

"And no one will believe my story," Sherlock said softly. "If I tell them the truth, they'll think I'm making it up because I can't cope with what I've done."

"That's what usually happens with scorned lovers," Moriarty agreed. "They always say they're innocent, even with blood on their hands."

"What will you do now?" Sherlock asked.

Moriarty shrugged. "Try to find another distraction. Finding you took a long time, but eventually there will be another you. We're not ordinary, Sherlock, but we're not the only ones. Or so I hope.

"Well, it's been real, it's been fun, but… oh, who am I kidding. It's been real fun!" Moriarty said with a grin. "I'll write to you, Sherlock. Maybe you can stay in Pentonville!"

He started to turn, but Sherlock's voice stopped him. "Of course, there's  **one**  little thing I forgot to tell you…dear Jim."

Moriarty turned and frowned. "What?"

Sherlock took a step back from him, closer to Molly. "I have a little secret too."

"Oh?" Moriarty asked. "What?"

Sherlock smiled. "I  **knew**  you hadn't planted bombs."

Moriarty stared at him. "You did not. You believed me."

"Nope," Sherlock said. "You see, my "big brother" as you call him, slipped a little something into the mobile you first gave me. Took him a little time, but he managed to infiltrate your new network. Found out all sorts of fascinating things from a few of your people. They broke rather easily, not like Moran. Of course, you were left scrambling after I hunted the original ones all down, so you couldn't get first-rate help. And he told me everything I needed to know in that lovely box of condoms he gave me."

Moriarty's expression hardened. "You're lying."

"Not today," Sherlock said. "You know how you had a few people 'quit' on you and disappear? You figured they were running from you. But they weren't. Mycroft has them. When you wanted to exchange mobiles, Mycroft took the chip out before I gave it back to you. The only thing I hadn't figured out was where you were going to end it, until Miss Adler learned that little secret. Then the map all made sense."

Moriarty clenched the gun tightly. "No. You're making all this up. Stop making up a story!" He screamed.

"But I thought you  **like**  stories," Sherlock said with a laugh. He moved back another step. "Here's a story for you. Yes, you made me be open to feelings. Yes, I do love Molly. But this time there's going to be a different ending, dear Jim. This time the villain doesn't get away. Something else happens to him."

"What?" Moriarty asked.

"He dies," Sherlock said… and the lights went out.

Sherlock immediately dropped, covering Molly's body with his as gunfire exploded all around. He heard the explosive thuds of bullets piercing flesh, smelled the gunpowder and felt the heat of the assault from Mycroft's men, all wearing night vision goggles with heat-seeking detection devices. The bullets seemed to fly forever, through in reality he knew it lasted for less than 10 seconds.

Then everything was quiet.

The lights came back on. Sherlock squinted to readjust as footsteps rushed forward and from the door. Dimly, he heard John's voice, and Mycroft's, but his attention was fixed on one person, one man. No, not a man. An insane spider who'd tried to poison them all.

Moriarty lay on the ground, quite dead.

Sherlock got up and walked over to his lifeless body. "Red hot, doc," he said softly.

"Sherlock?"

He turned to see John and Mycroft, along with Mycroft's men.

"Implement Project Blue," Mycroft said tonelessly, and his men scrambled to obey.

Sherlock went back to Molly as John and Mycroft reached them.

"He's really dead," John said. "God help me, but I don't feel bad about it."

"Nor should you," Mycroft said. "He would not have stopped. He would have continued his madness elsewhere until the day he died."

"Still, a bit of a mess for you, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "James Moriarty was too dangerous to be left alive. He proved that after the last time I let him go. Had he been carrying out his threat, his action would have constituted terrorism. Bombs are not taken lightly."

"But there weren't any, right?" John asked.

Mycroft only smiled, as if to say: 'let me handle the important details, John.'

"What about Molly?" John asked softly.

"Unconscious. She'll be bruised for a while, but I had to apply enough pressure to convince Moriarty I'd really killed her. The drug took care of the rest." At that, he took a tube of something and a handkerchief out of his pocket and began to clean off his mouth

"Sedating lip balm," John said, shaking his head. "Brilliant. But how did you keep it from affecting you? You never told me that bit."

Sherlock waited until he'd cleaned his mouth thoroughly before he replied. "Sealed my lips with wax. Another magic trick."

He pocketed the items, then gathered Molly in his arms, not caring about the chaos around him. "Molly," he said softly. "Wake up, Molly."

She didn't respond at first. John checked her eyes and nodded. "She's all right. Just give her a few more minutes." He went to get some water.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who was staring at him impassively. "I suppose I should say thank you," he said at length.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "And I suppose I should say you're welcome."

"Yes. Glad we got that sorted," Sherlock said, and his brother nodded, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He walked away to give a directive.

John returned with some water. Sherlock patted some onto Molly's face. "Molly," he said. "Wake up."

A moment later, Molly stirred and coughed. "Sherlock," she croaked.

"It's all right," he said softly. "You're going to be bruised for a few days but I had to make it look real. I'm sorry I had to hurt you but I had to make sure he thought you were dead."

"What did you…"

"Sedative on my lips. Transferred it to you when I kissed you. Then I applied just enough pressure to your artery to knock you out and the drug made you appear dead. The rest was for show. I moved my hands while I chocked you but he didn't see."

"You always have a plan," Molly murmured, coughing again.

"Don't talk. We need to get you to hospital. And Mycroft will be complaining any moment now that we're in the way. John, I believe our business here is finished."

"Moriarty? Is he…dead?" Molly asked.

"Yes, Molly. This time for good," Sherlock said.

"Okay," she said, and then stopped talking, resting against Sherlock's solid warmth.

He scooped her up carefully, then turned to his best friend. "Ready?"

"God, yes," John said.

Moriarty's body was being readied for transport as Mycroft continued his direction. It was a big operation if Mycroft was overseeing it personally. But then, no other operation had been quite so personal.

Sherlock nodded at his brother, and with Molly in his arms he and John left.

_One week later…_

Sherlock stood with his arms crossed, gazing out the window in 221B's sitting room. His ordinarily calm, orderly mind was in chaos, and even if he wasn't the world's only consulting detective he would know why.

The day Moriarty had been shot and killed, Molly went in hospital to recover from the drugs and the choking. Everyone else had taken turns being with her. Sherlock didn't leave her the entire time she was unconscious.

That night, John had proposed to Mary. She of course said yes, and the two of them had been planning their wedding, honeymoon, and John's departure from Baker Street.

That was... upsetting. But that wasn't what was the main source of his…feelings.

Two days later, Molly had broken up with him. Try as he would, the scene kept playing in his head.

" _Sherlock, I know you don't really want…this. It was forced on you."_

_He stared at her. "Molly… I love you. It doesn't matter how it happened. The fact remains that it exists."_

" _But it was all a lie at first. Our first date, the first night we were together… everything was a lie. And I believe that you think you love me, but how can I trust it now? How can I trust that it's real?" Molly asked, tears in her eyes._

_Sherlock didn't know how to respond._

" _I love you. I always will. But it's for the best that we ends this," Molly said. "I don't… I can't take not knowing if the next day is when you'll realize it's a horrible mistake and leave. I'd rather end it now and… maybe someday we can be friends again."_

_Of all the things He'd ever imagined Molly saying to him, this was never one of them. "But I love you," he repeated. "I've never told anyone I loved them before. Why can't you trust me?"_

" _I'm sorry."_

" _Molly," he moved towards her but she shook her head._

" _Goodbye, Sherlock."_

_And she all but ran from 221B, him too stunned to react._

There had been no cases. Nothing to distract him from his jumbled thoughts and his feelings.

At first, he'd told himself she was right. Love was a dangerous distraction, sentiment a chemical defect found on the losing side. They'd just let things go back to the way they'd been before and it would be fine.

But it wasn't fine. He missed Molly. Missed her in a way he'd never missed anyone, even John. Her eyes, her laugh, her voice, even her terrible jokes. Pop music and cat and atrocious clothes: everything that was his pathologist he  **missed**. He wanted to talk to her, see her smile, even eat with her. There was a horrible emptiness inside him, but somehow it suffocated him too. He felt alien in his own skin and the tightness in his chest refused to go away.

So this was what the painful side of love felt like. No wonder people committed crimes over it.

John came in at that moment. He stopped when he saw his friend standing unmoving by the window. It wasn't the first time he'd done it over the past few days. "Sherlock?" He asked.

Sherlock didn't respond. He was walking through his mind palace, trying to find some way to stop the pain in his heart. But there was nothing there to help deal with heartache.

"Sherlock," John repeated gently. He walked over, touched Sherlock on the arm. Sherlock blinked in surprise, as if he'd just now registered John's presence.

"Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"I want," he began, and stopped.

"You want what?"

Sherlock's eyes slid shut painfully. "I just want Molly," he said, voice harsh and broken.

John sighed. He'd heard this before. It wasn't their first discussion about what had happened.

"She's scared," he said gently. "She's hurt and afraid and doesn't know what to think."

"But what I told her is true," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and turning to face his friend. "I do love her. Yes, it's because of Moriarty's manipulation, but that does not change the truth of it. I don't know how to get her to understand it, John. She'll slip away from me."

"Are you sure you want to be with her?" John asked. "You've said some pretty harsh things to me about feelings and love. How do you know you won't decide it's a mistake?"

"How does anyone know?" Sherlock asked him. "How do you know that in 10 years Mary won't tire of you and want to leave? How did Lestrade not know his wife would be habitually unfaithful? If people knew the future, John, these things wouldn't happen. But we don't. We just live each day as best we can, and deal with whatever comes our way."

John blinked. "That was…amazing, Sherlock. I never thought you'd understand anything like that."

Sherlock shrugged. "Love gave me insight. I have hesitated to delete it, because…"

"Of Molly," John finished.

Sherlock nodded.

John exhaled deeply. "Right. I wasn't sure before, but I am now. I think you're ready."

Sherlock looked at him quizzically. "Ready for what?"

"For me to tell you how to get Molly back."

Sherlock stood hesitantly in front of Molly's door. John's advice had made sense, seemed logical… but he was afraid.

He snorted. Him, Sherlock Holmes, afraid of something.

But the thought of losing Molly outweighed the fear of this attempt. He had to try.

He rang her doorbell. He saw her look through the peephole.

"Sherlock…"

"Please, Molly. Just give me 5 minutes."

After what seemed like forever, she opened the door and let him in.

He walked into the sitting room as she closed the door. She followed him, and he deduced her as she came into the room. She hadn't slept well, and had lost a pound in the past 5 days. Her eyes were dark and she clearly exhibited signs of emotional turmoil. While he was not glad she was unwell, he was pleased that she clearly had been missing him as much as he had her.

Molly crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

He moved until he was standing right in front of her. "You."

She blinked hard. "Sherlock…"

"You wanted to know how you could believe this was real, that what I feel for you is real. The very fact that I am here should tell you that I love you. If I thought this was a mistake, if I didn't really love you, I would not be here telling you these things. There is no Moriarty, no blackmail, just me here with you telling you how I feel."

"But…"

"You said to me once if there was anything I needed, anything at all, I could have you," Sherlock continued. "I never fully understood that until I fell in love with you. But I do now. I need to share my work with you. I need you beside me when I sleep. I need to hear you sing. I need you to tell me when something's not good and make bad jakes and wear a bow in your hair at Christmas."

Molly was crying, staring at him through her tears. Sherlock felt his throat tighten but he went on.

"I can't promise you that it will be easy. You know it won't because you know me better than anyone but John. I will keep saying and doing things that upset you and apologizing for them. I will be difficult and demanding and exasperating. But I will do whatever I can to make you happy and be what you deserve. I'm not good. But you, Molly Hooper. You make me want to be a better man."

"Sherlock," she whispered.

"So please, Molly. Stop worrying about what might happen in 5 years, or 20, because we don't know. But I know that I love you, and I want to love you for the rest of my life."

Molly pressed her hands over her mouth, staring at him with wide eyes shining with tears. She pulled her hands away and kept staring at him. His own eyes felt suspiciously wet.

"Molly?"

Molly launched herself at him, wrapped her arms around him tightly and kissed him as hard as she could. He kissed her back, holding her just as tightly, everything in him screaming out at the rightness of it, the pain disappearing and there was nothing but him and Molly being together, really together.

"I missed you so much," Molly sobbed, still holding him tight. "I wanted it to be real but I couldn't… I was afraid to believe it."

"I know," Sherlock said, running his fingers through her hair. "I was afraid to come and tell you: afraid you would turn me away. But I didn't want to lose you."

"What made you come?" she asked, wiping her eyes.

"John," Sherlock admitted. "He said he knew now that I was ready and told me I needed to stop being an idiot and 'go get the girl,' I believe were his exact words."

"Just like in the movies," Molly murmured.

"It's not a movie anymore, Molly. It's life. And I want us to get back to living it together."

She smiled at him, then took him by the hand and started pulling him towards her bedroom. "Then let's start with some reconciliation sex."

Sherlock kissed her again. "That seems appropriate."


	22. All I Want for Christmas Is You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five months later brings many changes to Baker Street, as Sherlock makes the biggest decision of his life.

_Five months later…_

John and Mary climbed the stairs from 221C to 221B. Mary had been hesitant at first to move in to the basement flat at 221 Baker Street, worried that Sherlock would do things like pick the lock on their door and storm into the bedroom while she and John were shagging. Possibly not caring. Or possibly offering commentary. Molly was a good influence on him but it was still so hard to tell with that brilliant damnable man. But so far Sherlock had exercised remarkable restraint, only barging in a few times, not while they were shagging and not before knocking to announce his presence. Of course, she and John had only been married for two months, so he could just be waiting a bit to revert to his old ways.

Still, it was a nice place to live. Close to Bart's and easy for her to get to work. John was working part-time at a volunteer clinic and working with Sherlock as well. Faced with the prospect of losing his blogger and stimulator of genius, Sherlock had offered John a nice bit of cash to work with him. John had accepted, as he wanted to do his part to support him and Mary, and the clinic work was his way of not letting his medical skills rust while doing some good in the world. So far, it was an excellent arrangement.

John and Mary had moved into 221C with Mrs. Hudson's ecstatic approval and got married 2 months after. Sherlock had made a surprisingly good best man, and Molly had been the maid of honor. Sherlock even gave a (mostly) appropriate toast to them at the reception, a smiling Molly at his side. Sherlock and Molly had danced with Mary and John, Sherlock with Mrs. Hudson and Molly with Greg Lestrade, and then they had spent the rest of the evening either with Sherlock deducing guests and arguing with Mycroft or dancing with Molly.

While they were on their two week honeymoon (gift from Mycroft), Molly moved in with Sherlock at 221B. They'd returned, tan and blissful and a few pounds heavier, to find Molly's cat Toby on Molly and Sherlock's legs, as they lay curled around each other, asleep on the sofa.

It was…odd, John thought as Mary rang the bell, just how much emotion Sherlock was capable of expressing now. Oh, John had always known it was there, but he hadn't thought Sherlock would show it. And it wasn't as though he'd suddenly metamorphosed into some gushy romantic. But there was a soft fondness in his eyes that had only rarely been there before, and he'd smile whenever Molly ran her fingers through his hair or give him a brief kiss. They even held hands on occasion. Odd, yes. But it was… good.

"Why are you ringing the bell? Come in!" Sherlock's voice, slightly irritated and preoccupied, shouted at them. John shrugged and they went into the flat just as some Christmas music started to play on the stereo.

The place was set up as usual for Christmas, with lights in the window and food and drinks in the kitchen. Molly and Mrs. Hudson weren't there, but Greg and Mycroft were, having what seemed like a pleasant conversation. Sherlock was on the sofa, scowling slightly at his new mobile: an early gift from Molly. Mary put their bag of gifts down and ruffled Sherlock's hair. He frowned at her. "Only Molly and Mrs. Hudson do that," he said. Then he added: "and hello John, Mary."

Mary threw up her hands in exaggerated apology. "So sorry, your highness. And where  **are**  Molly and Mrs. Hudson?"

"On their way here." As if on cue, Sherlock's phone came to life: "She blinded me with science!"

John and Mary stared at each other, gobsmacked.

He looked at it and smiled. "Excellent. They'll be downstairs in about a minute. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to help."

As he rose, John asked: "Sherlock… is that…your ringtone for Molly?"

Sherlock's brows knitted together in confusion. "Yes. It's also my  **text message tone**  for Molly," he added with a smirk.

Seeing their stare, he became even more puzzled. "That's what people do when they're in a relationship, isn't it? Have special ringtones for each other on their mobiles?"

Mary nodded vigorously. "Yes. Absolutely."

"I deduced as much." Sherlock shook his head. "Honestly, when did  **I**  become the relationship expert?" He hurried to go help Molly and Mrs. Hudson as John pulled out his phone and began typing like mad.

Mary turned to him. "Did you-"

"Got it," John replied. "Downloading it now. We will definitely be listening to that song later."

"I knew there was a reason why I loved you," Mary murmured, kissing her husband.

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was because you like my bum."

"That, too," she said, smiling.

Greg and Mycroft came over to greet them, and the four of them exchanged some casual conversation about the weather, work, and married life.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later, Molly and Mrs. Hudson following along, Sherlock helping them out of their coats. Everyone but Mary and Mycroft looked at Molly in surprise. She was wearing the dress she'd worn the Christmas before the Fall, complete with earrings and silver bow in her hair, though without makeup. Molly realized they were staring at her and managed a small smile. "Sherlock asked me to wear it."

"And you are beautiful," he told her, kissing her briefly on the lips. He glowered at John and Lestrade as if daring them to say something, but they were silent.

"Sherlock's right, dear, you're lovely in that," Mrs. Hudson said, and Molly smiled again.

"Yes, now that that's settled, perhaps we can start the party properly?" Sherlock asked.

And they did. About half an hour in, Mrs. Hudson went to get another plate of hors d'oeuvres from the kitchen. Suddenly she let out a sharp, frightened cry.

Sherlock leaped to his feet, everyone else following suit, and they ran to the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson stood with the refrigerator door open, pointing at it. "A severed hand!" She exclaimed. "Sherlock, there is a **severed hand** in the refrigerator!"

"Yes," he said, puzzled. "Did it frighten you?"

" **It's unsanitary!** Molly!" She exclaimed. "Did you know there's a severed hand in there?"

Molly looked as puzzled as Sherlock. "Of course I did. Who do you think gave it to him?"

Sherlock smiled, and Molly smiled back at him.

 _And this,_ Sherlock thought,  _is why I love Molly._

Gifts were exchanged and opened, comments were made, and laughter and music rang out at 221B Baker Street in a way that had never happened before. Sherlock grudgingly tried on the scarf Mary and John had bought him, looked at it critically, then announced: "It will do, I suppose. Thank you," which John assured her was actually high praise. Molly loved the earrings she got from Mary and John: hand-crafted, tiny silver scalpels. Lestrade looked quite pleased with the bottle of aged scotch from Sherlock and Molly, and Mycroft's lips actually twitched in a smile when he opened his box from them and saw a leather-bound copy of  _The Joy of Sex._

"Sure that you don't need to keep this? You  **are**  in a  **relationship**  now," he said to Sherlock.

"I prefer to learn firsthand, thank you," Sherlock replied. Molly giggled, and everyone else looked confused. But neither Holmes elaborated.

Finally it was just Molly and Sherlock left. Molly started for the kitchen to clean up a bit, but Sherlock stopped her. "Leave it for tonight," he told her. "I have a special gift to give you."

"All right," she said, following him into the living room. He had rearranged the furniture a bit while she was in the loo, leaving a wide open space in the sitting room floor. He put a CD in the stereo and pressed play, and music Molly was unfamiliar with filled the room.

He stood in front of her and bowed. "May I have this dance?" He asked formally.

Molly barely managed not to giggle. "It would be my pleasure," she responded, and moved against Sherlock.

She sighed as she felt her body fit to his, his chin resting on top of her head lightly as they began to dance. The lyrics started in the song and they slowly moved against each other.

_You and I are on the outside, of almost everything, You and I are on the other side, of almost everything_

_Cause we, we got the same heart_  
  
_You and I,You and I_

Molly sighed. "That was a lovely gift. Thank you."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "You're welcome. But that wasn't quite your gift."

She looked up at him. "Oh?"

"There's a box over there on the mantle," he said with a nod. "Go open it."

Molly did as he asked, frowning slightly when she opened the plain cardboard box. "There's nothing in here, Sherlock. Are you sure you-" she continued, turning around to face him again. And her heart stopped.

Sherlock was holding out a dark blue velvet ring box. A blue star sapphire was flanked by two small pink sapphires on a gold band. Molly clutched one hand to her chest as Sherlock smiled and his eyes met hers.

"Marry me, Molly Hooper," he said softly.

Molly's hands flew up to her mouth for a few seconds. She started to cry, but when she pulled her hands away Sherlock saw that she was smiling.

Molly looked at him. And she knew, like she'd known when he asked her to go in a date, and when he'd asked her to be his girlfriend, that there was only response she could ever give him.

So she smiled through her tears and said:

"Yes. That would be lovely. Thank you. Yes is my answer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You and I Are a Gang of Losers" by the Dears, copyright 2006 by Maple Music Recordings.


	23. I'll Stand by You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly's wedding day.

_Four months later…_

Irene smirked as Sherlock approached her. "Well, Mister Holmes. Tomorrow's your big day. Are you nervous?"

He frowned. "No. Why would I be?"

"Getting married? Tying yourself to one person for all eternity? It's very brave of you," Irene said, affecting a shudder. She looked up at him with sharp eyes. "You once told me you should never let your heart rule your head. What happened?"

Sherlock had thought about that more than once over the past 18 months or so. And he could only come up with one response. "It isn't ruling my head. It's more of a coexistence."

Irene smirked. "You always did want companionship. It was obvious. You're just very selective about it. For the best, mind you. It's always been my philosophy too."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And are you still happy with your life?"

Irene looked pensive. "It's funny. I never thought about it much, until I saw you and Molly together. Even with you I knew it couldn't be anything permanent, and that was fine. But the way you look at her… I've never had anyone look at me quite that way. With desire, yes. Or admiration in your case. But not with love."

"Surely you don't  **want**   **that** ,' Sherlock said with mock amazement. Irene shrugged.

"Life is full of surprises, Mister Holmes." She stepped closer and raised her hands, splaying her fingers out on Sherlock's chest. "Sure you don't want a last hurrah as a free man? No charge for friends."

Sherlock gently but firmly lifted her hands off his chest. He didn't speak, just stood looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

Irene blinked. "My God. You really do love her."

He inclined his head slightly. She removed her hands from his grip and gave him an amused smile. "Well. Sorry I can't stay for the wedding: there's a whole new world waiting for me in Australia. But I wish you and Molly all the best."

Sherlock raised her right hand to his lips and kissed it. "Goodbye, Woman."

Irene leaned in close and pressed her lips to his cheek. "Goodbye, Mister Holmes," she whispered.

He watched her walk away, then went inside and climbed the stairs of 221 Baker Street. Molly was sitting in the kitchen at the table, sipping tea and looking over one of her endless lists. She smiled when he moved beside her and gently pulled her to her feet, enveloping her in a warm embrace.

"Hi," she said softly, squeezing him in a hug. She pulled back and looked at him. "Everything ok?"

She didn't ask for details. She wasn't jealous. She trusted him.

He wasn't convinced he deserved her. But he wanted to.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed her. "Yes," he murmured against her mouth. "Everything is ok."

Mycroft came to see him the next morning, looking impeccable in his suit. Sherlock was not certain who was the more surprised, him or Mycroft, when he asked him to be a groomsman. But his brother had accepted.

Now he stood before Sherlock and studied him. "It's not too late to change your mind, brother," Mycroft told him.

Sherlock stared at him. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Marriage is a big step, Sherlock. Are you certain you are ready for it?"

"I wouldn't have asked Molly to marry me if I wasn't."

Mycroft inclined his head. "Of course." He reached up to fuss with Sherlock's tie while Sherlock made a sound of irritation. "I was… uncertain about this union. But your devotion to Doctor Hooper is genuine, as is hers to you. I wish you both the best."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You were testing Molly. The day you went to her and tried to get her to leave me. You wanted to know how far she was willing to go."

"Of course," Mycroft replied. "You are a dangerous man to be with, Sherlock. I had to be sure she would stand by you no matter what."

"And you weren't concerned about me standing by her?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft smiled. "I really must be going. I'm in a wedding, you see."

"Mycroft…" Sherlock began as his brother turned and started walking.

Mycroft stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "I will always be your brother, Sherlock. "

Sherlock nodded. He knew precisely what that meant. He watched with a faint smile as Mycroft left.

Mrs. Hudson knocked softly on the door. "Yoo-hoo! Sherlock!"

"For goodness sake, Missus Hudson, come in!" Sherlock said in mild exasperation. "I should just hang a sign on the door."

Mrs. Hudson entered, looking elegant in a dusky rose dress and matching hat. She walked over to Sherlock and hugged him tight. "Oh, Sherlock! My Sherlock, all grown up and getting married!"

"I was already a grown-up, Missus Hudson," Sherlock reminded her, and she sniffed.

"Of course you were dear. But not like now! You're getting married! Now you treat Molly properly, you hear me? Don't make me have to come upstairs and give you a good smack with the paper!"

"I will do my best to avoid that at all costs," Sherlock said, waiting patiently for her to release him. She sobbed and held him tighter. Sherlock sighed and put his arms around her shoulders. "Please, Missus Hudson. You'll soak my suit and make my soon-to-be-wife rather unhappy."

"Sorry," she sniffed. Sherlock offered her his handkerchief from his breast pocket, and she took it, blowing her nose at a volume that would have impressed an elephant. She handed it back to him and patted him on the arm. "I'd better go see how Molly is. Oh, I'm so happy!"

He kissed her on the cheek and smiled. "Thank you, dear Missus H."

As she hurriedly left the room, Sherlock looked down at his handkerchief and sighed. Then he sent John a text.

_Need Handkerchief when you return. –SH_

_Why? –John W_

_Mrs. Hudson. –SH_

_Ah. On my way. –John W_

Sherlock knew who was at the door from the sharp, brisk knock. "Come in, Lestrade," he called out. "Everyone else has," he added under his breath.

Lestrade entered, wearing a dark gray suit with a small pink rose in the buttonhole. He stared at Sherlock in a mixture of admiration and surprise. "You look pretty good all cleaned up, mate."

"Thank you."

Lestrade shuffled his feet a bit and did not quite meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Lestrade?" Sherlock prompted. "As you might have noticed, I'm getting married shortly and I believe Molly's exact words were: 'I have waited long enough for this.' So out with it, man." He smiled to take the edge off his words.

"Yeah, about that," Lestrade said. He cleared his throat. "There's something I need to tell you before you and Molly get married. Something I need to, well, come clean about."

Sherlock studied him. "Would that be the fact that while I was gone, you kissed Molly one night while intoxicated after an evening at a pub?"

Lestrade blinked. "Yeah, that."

"Ah. As you now realize, I already knew that, Lestrade. Though I do appreciate you 'coming clean,' it was not necessary. Molly and I were not together at that time; therefore, you did nothing wrong. Apart from waiting until my wedding day to tell me, perhaps."

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I just… didn't feel right about it, you know? And I should have told you sooner. It was shit of me not to. I didn't think you'd be upset much, so… well, anyway," Lestrade said, "I'm really happy for you two. I mean it."

Sherlock inclined his head. There was one question he didn't have an answer to, and he decided now was as good a time as any. "Why did you never pursue Molly?" He asked. "I know you found her attractive. I was out of the picture. Yet you made no attempt to court her and your one kiss occurred while you were very drunk. Why?"

Lestrade looked at him. "Because it was quite obvious that she was still in love with you. And it felt like… hell, I don't know. Like I would've been disrespecting you. Your memory. And I wasn't going to do that. Because I've always considered you a friend."

Sherlock coughed slightly and looked down. "I see."

An awkward silence ensued. Lestrade cleared his throat. "Right. Well I'd better be getting back out there. For some reason you wanted me to be a groomsman, you know."

Just before Lestrade touched the doorknob, Sherlock spoke. "Greg."

Lestrade turned, shocked. Sherlock had never used his first name before.

Sherlock met his gaze. "The feeling is.. somewhat mutual."

Lestrade grinned. "Thanks."

John Watson studied his best friend while he fussed over Sherlock's suit, making sure the handkerchief was centered and pressed properly. Sherlock sighed. "It is a handkerchief, John, not an army bed sheet."

"All right," John groused, quickly finishing. "Just want you to look your best for your wedding day. No need to get tetchy."

"I'm not tetchy!"

"And that just proved my point," John countered, smoothing Sherlock's lapels down with a smile. He looked up at his friend. "All right?"

"I'm fine. Why does everyone seem to think I wouldn't be?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

"Well you are-"

"-Getting married, yes, I'm well aware of that, thank you," Sherlock finished wryly.

"I never thought this would happen," John said. "I mean, I knew you had changed when you came back. But I never thought it could lead to this. You, in love. Getting married."

"I wouldn't have thought it either," Sherlock admitted. "But here we are."

"You know," John said after a moment's pause, "I really am happy for you and Molly. God, I am. But I can't help but think that-"

"-That none of this would have happened if it wasn't for Moriarty's mad plan," Sherlock said softly.

John nodded. "Yeah. How do you feel about that, Sherlock? The fact that he was right, that you were capable of falling in love? If it wasn't for him, you wouldn't be here getting ready to get married. Even though he's dead, it's like he still won in a way. Does that make you, I dunno, angry?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"It did at first," he said when he finally spoke. "I resented it. I didn't want to date, or be in a relationship, even if it was with Molly, who logically was the best choice were I inclined to enter into such a thing. I told him it was impossible for me to fall in love. But as time passed, what I realized I was really angry about was that he knew something about me that I did not. He saw the truth that I had refused to see. I  **was**  capable of being in love. It wasn't that love disgusted me. It terrified me.

"All my life, people have thought I was incapable of feelings. That I was some sort of freak, a heartless man who only cared about himself, it even that. But you saw the truth. I wasn't good at expressing it, and barely could let myself show it. But it wasn't that I was incapable of feeling anything. It was that I was capable of feeling too much."

John nodded. "I always figured that's why you shut it away. I knew for sure after you jumped. You were afraid that feelings would cloud your mind, make you lose what makes you who you are. But it didn't, Sherlock."

"No. It has not. But it took Moriarty for me to be able to know it. And you are right. He did still win, in a way. He proved me wrong. It wasn't the first time. But it is the last."

He looked at his best friend. "So yes, it did anger me. But it gave me Molly. And I love her. And I will never be angry about that. And now he's dead and I am very much alive. In that sense, I won."

John tilted his head. "So, it's a draw, then?"

Sherlock chuckled. "If you like. Although as I am the one who is living, I think I'm the real winner."

"No argument here," John told him.

Sherlock surprised John by giving him a brief but strong hug. "Thank you, John," Sherlock said softly. "For everything."

John grinned. "You're welcome. Now. As best man of this wedding, I say let's go get you married."

"If we must," Sherlock sighed.

"If we must? Hang on a bloody minute," John began, then stopped and scowled. "You bastard."

Sherlock grinned. "Really, if I'd known how much fun it was to use a sense of humor around people, I'd have done it years ago."

The ceremony had gone beautifully. Molly's eyes had darted around nervously a bit when the priest asked if anyone had an objection, but no one did. And before she knew it, she had become Molly Hooper Holmes. And the ache that had sat for so long in her heart stretched its tiny final vestiges and disappeared.  _And good bloody riddance,_  she thought.

Now she was sitting with her husband (Her husband! Sherlock was her husband! God, she hoped she was always so ecstatic about that fact) and their friends and family and laughing about something that had happened to John and Mary on their honeymoon.

Molly had assumed Sherlock would be like a lot of men and leave all of the wedding details up to her. An although he had let her make most of the decisions, he'd surprised her about one thing. He'd told her that while he didn't really care about colors and accents and flowers and cake icing, he wanted to be in charge of the music. Molly had been surprised, but agreed.

She figured Sherlock would hire an orchestra and they'd spend their wedding reception listening to classical music. But she'd been wrong. Although he had hired an orchestra for the wedding itself, for the reception he'd gotten a DJ to go with it.

The announcement came that is was time for them to have their first dance. Sherlock rose and held out his hand to Molly. "Mrs. Holmes?" He asked with a smile.

She smiled back. She hadn't thought he'd want to have a formal wedding at all, and the fact that he'd agreed had told her just how much he loved her. Granted, it was a small service at one of the Holmes estates, but it was the wedding she'd always wanted. And he'd done that for her, this brilliant, brooding, difficult man that she would love for the rest of her life. She put her hand in his and let him help her to her feet. "My pleasure," Mr. Holmes," she replied.

They moved out into the dancing area to murmurs of admiration and well-wishing. Molly looked up at him. "So what did you choose?" she asked.

He smiled enigmatically. "You're about to find out."

He nodded, and the DJ pressed a button. As the song came on, Molly gasped. Tears began to fill her eyes. "Oh, Sherlock," she said softly.

He leaned down and kissed her, holding her close. Molly didn't care that she was crying (all her makeup was waterproof), she was happier than she'd ever been in her life.

So Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes began to dance to the song that Sherlock had chosen: the song that perfectly said everything he ever wanted to say to Molly, and she to him.

_When the night falls on you, you don't know what to do, Nothing you confess, could make me love you less_

_I'll stand by you, I'll stand by you, Won't let nobody hurt you, I'll stand by you_

_I'll stand by you, take me in, into your darkest hour And I'll never desert you, I'll stand by you_

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll Stand by You," the Pretenders, copyright 1994 Sire/Warner Bros. WEA Records


End file.
